Schizophreniac
by takeiro
Summary: [After End Game in Archie] The destruction of Robotnik and his Ultimate Annihilator have come at a great price. The natural barriers between zones have been breached and people are vanishing into other zones. But it seems that events are being manipulated
1. Prologue

_**Schizophreniac**_

**A Prologue**

I have a friend who hates clichés, stereotypes, and anything else that seems common or average.

"It was a dark and stormy night--"

"Today was a day like any other day--"

"The sunshine pouring through his window caused him to wake up. Little did he know that this would be the darkest or weirdest, saddest, or any other adjective here day of his life."

Fortunately, I am not her, I am me. (At least, I was last time I looked in the mirror.) I find clichés and stereotypes quite useful; they seem to make the creative process easier when you do not attempt to find the _least used cliche_known to man. What do I mean by that? Everything is a cliché or stereotype of some sort.

Yes, I can see it in your eyes-- I have just imparted a monumental revelation to you. Everything written has been written before, everything created was original to someone else first. Every invention was thought of by some other person who wished they had that very device. Every idea is a copy or variation of another idea another person already had.

Every event in history, art, or science was, at some point, originated by someone else, even if the originator did not realize they did so. Fantasy and fiction are based on reality. Not even evil was a new idea when it was first practiced, it was just a perversion of good, the original practice. Wrong is simply the warping of right to fit one's selfish desires. History repeats itself because people seem to remain the same. Maybe that is why so many people become addicts to chemicals and habits; they believe life is too old, too boring. Some use such excuses for depression, which is very selfish, considering that one's thoughts are perpetually on the self (This can easily be remedied by performing a kind or imaginative act to benefit another). True, this planet seems old. The key is **how we present this old information in a new way or creative way**. This is the theory of _**reflectionism**_. Subsequent imitation is very similar to reflectionism, but instead of just pretending to be something, one adds his own creative flair and personality to the imitation, like a mirror reflecting the same image from a different angle.

Life is a recurring series of sequels. Words are repeated, opinions are identical to someone else's. However, what the average person does not realize is that **Life is original**. Planets, Life, Words--these _**ARE**_ originals. Patterns are original to planets, words are original to life, and we play a vital role in the uniqueness of life. Just as millions of cells and parts make up the body, a unique whole, so does the individual person make up part of creation, of life, a unique whole!

Why not live as yourself? Yes, it is your responsibility to be unique, special, to be individual in some way, but by trying to be different than someone else, you are only being the same as a different someone else (and depriving yourself of what you truly want at the same time). The body has thousands of ways of making someone different from another. The soul (mind, will, and emotions) has hundreds of thousands of differences from the next guy through choices and thoughts. The spirit has millions of facets that can only begin to be understood because each person has a different destiny and life force. Thus, you are unique! In some way you will never fit in with others, but in many more ways you will be accepted based on how you are comparable to so many people on this planet. This is exciting! It is a proven fact that people **need other people**. That is _because _we are individual and unique.

Be unique, be special. _**Be a reflectionist.**_ If your life is an episode in the series, make it memorable by being yourself, not by being different! _**Enjoy WHO you are, not WHAT you are!**_ You are who you are by creation, you are what you are by choice. Never attempt to change yourself into a What instead of a Who, especially if popular opinion is What is trying to control you. In reality, the most unique people are those who do not try so much to be different, but try to live a good life based on good patterns. The most unique people are Whos, not Whats. They know their identity is not based on how "individual I must be from as many people as possible." Their identity is based on connection to another Who, depending on Him, learning from Him, trying to be like Him. Why? Because He is unique, **He is original**. As a unique person, it is best to be like the Original. Reflect the perfect and unique patterns of the Original. No more masks, no more faking it--just be yourself. _**Be Who you are.**_

* * *

The boy placed the pen down next to his notebook. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. It was becoming dark outside. Soon, he would only be able to see what he was writing by straining his eyes. He stretched, took the pen to his hand again, and began to write the final sentence of today's entry into the book. It could be more accurately called his journal--the contents of which he planned to publish one day if he ever thought of something truly spectacular. So far, the entire book was fairly—unusual. He paused after writing one word, thinking about his previous statements. He smiled, realizing that he was "reflecting on reflectionism." Why did his mind work in puns?

Amused by his own ideas, he again thought carefully about what he had written. Did he believe it? Was he actually telling himself that all creation had originated from one source? His understanding of the cosmos was indeed very limited, but had he actually stumbled upon some profound truth accidentally? A strange feeling crept into the depths of his stomach, the kind of feeling that cannot be attributed to what one had eaten earlier that day. He was terribly confused. In one sitting, he had described the divisions of a person's being, explained how all people are different from each other, yet the same, and admitted to himself that the universe was far too vast but its patterns too simple to be created by accident. He was forced to believe that someone had previously struggled with the same thoughts he was having now. Perhaps it was not an accident that he now had these thoughts.

The sun had nearly finished its westerly course (or rather, the rotation of the planet made it appear so). He walked toward the west entrance of his house, what he called the "back" of his house. He stepped outside, and feeling the chilly early spring breeze, moved out of the shadow of the tree near the rear of his house. It became slightly more comfortable when he stood in the warmth of the sun. It was quiet, which was common for the period just after winter; many of the birds one could normally hear had not returned from their migrations.

Looking toward the last brief moments of the sunset, he recited a simple poem to himself.

When the curtain of night is drawn about--  
When the darkness deepens and shadow surrounds,  
My soul shall ne'er be downcast, nor discordant always  
As long as I recall the wonder I have known.

I shall press inward and onward.  
The dawn is approaching.  
My firm persuasion is that I shall soon witness  
Light over horizons rising again.

Surely, my hope will not fail me.  
Truly, it cannot fail me.

The Light will be my hope and rescue.

Where had he heard that poem before? He knew it well. He had remembered it since he was a child; only then, it was recited by a much deeper voice.

That voice—every time he thought about it, he felt a pang of longing for someone he could not remember, except for the voice. The Voice had sung to him on several occasions too. Feeling tears forming in his eyes, he walked inside the house to his reading room. This time he would not let the melody escape him. He retrieved his violin from the case on the end-table, and returned outside, bow and instrument in hand.

Although he could not recall the words to the song, the melody had remained strikingly clear. He lifted the violin into position and drew the bow across the strings. With an ease that could only have come from professional training and natural ability, he ushered the melody into the physical world precisely as his memory reconstructed it. The song was set in a minor key, beginning in the lower tones. It began softly, quietly, somewhat mournfully, but climbed in dynamics as the notes rose higher.

Suddenly, a portion of the song he had not remembered flooded his soul. The notes waxed in volume and in emotional power, rising into the instrument's highest octave. Changing to a major key, the piece sweetened, lending to it a new hopeful and bright aspect. The young man wept silently as he played the climax. Then, the music shifted again into the minor key. A rapid succession of descending pizzicato notes, gradually slowing, and three greatly separated bowed rising notes signaled the song was nearly at its end. On that tonal apex he remained for some time, repeatedly drawing the bow over the string to prolong its existence long enough to be embraced fully. Finally, after a brief musical rest, he played three notes, and played two notes simultaneously to end in the major chord, completing the course of his memory.

Somehow, his body now felt lighter. Each breath seemed deeper than the last, but also easier, more relaxed. One final tear fell from his very young face. Music often had this influence over him, but never to such a great degree.

Suddenly, he became very tired. Having bid his emotional goodnight to the sun, he returned indoors, replaced the instrument inside its case, and went to his bed in another room. He nearly fell asleep before he realized that he had not finished the last sentence in his journal entry. With some effort, he slowly walked back to his desk in the reading room. He quickly finished the sentence and went to bed, rubbing his young eyes as he stumbled to his bedroom.

As he pulled the blankets over his shoulders, he looked to the empty nightstand. It always looked this way, blank but efficient, yet it seemed especially empty tonight—almost cold. With his eyes becoming heavier by the second, he reached out a gloved hand. For a single moment, he thought he had imagined seeing a blurry photograph in the center of the table. Every night he would wish to remember. He often wondered why there were no pictures in his house, but would easily settle for remembering his parents, or at least just their names. No definite clue of his past could be found in his house other than that single photograph. That was perhaps the single greatest reason he kept a journal; he did not want to forget anything else ever again.

Finally, tiredness took hold of him again and he slept. Nothing woke him that night, for it was a restful sleep, as if he had done some great physical feat that had exhausted him completely. Truly, it was a refreshing sleep, similar to those that one has when going to bed early just because he wants to--no concerns about the next day, no thoughts about the day completed--just rest.

If someone were to have crept into his house, he would not have noticed it.

However, that unwelcome visitor might have noticed the final sentence on the page of the journal in the reading room:

* * *

_I shall discover who He is--that Voice; I want to be like Him._

_--Miles _

* * *

* * *

**_Improved and extended 6/7/07_  
**


	2. Echoic Resonance

_**Schizophreniac**_

**Chapter 1**

**"Echoic Resonance"**

Voices--they were everywhere. He was surrounded; he could not get away from them. Their misty figures would appear momentarily, but fade away before he could reach them. Some were crying, many were shouting--they all proclaimed the same message, they were trapped somewhere, they needed help. Although he tried to help them, the intangible forms would only drift into the darkness when he reached them.

More of them--louder now...some were screaming. It was beginning to hurt his ears. His head pounded. If they would just calm down, I might be able to help them, he thought. All at once, the ghostly figures silenced. A presence was near, and a feeling of dread preceded its form, striking the mind with a maddening voice.

_Whence have you come? _questioned a voice. The voice had rich tonal quality, much like a singer, yet it somehow seemed hollow. The form was very close now.

"I live in the northern forests."

The answer came from a male timber wolf. At full height, he stood six feet, two inches tall. His golden-brown eyes scanned the space, the emptiness before him, searching for the person who had caused such terror in the previous figures. Something brushed against him. He looked, but there was nothing. His muscles tensed. The gray and silver fur on his back and neck bristled. He reached for his hunting knife at his belt only to discover that it was missing. At least he still had some rope.

_Whence have you come? _the form asked again. The lupine relaxed his body slightly. Knowing that any visible sign of frustration might provoke the creature, he remained still, and repeated his answer. It was not satisfactory.

_What reality? _This time, the creature demanded to know. The voice was cold and violent now.

"You ask for an answer that I cannot give you."

_You refuse to tell me?_

"This information is beyond my understanding."

The creature laughed at him. It was amused to hear such formal answers from someone who admitted to ignorance. In a light-hearted tone, it spoke again.

_It will not be beyond mine for long. You have an ability that I must extinguish. I shall find you. _The voice sounded more distant.

"Who are you?" the wolf shouted.

_That too would be beyond your understanding, wolf. Regardless, I shall tell you--I owe you that at least for the amusement you have granted me this evening! _The creature chuckled--a low rumbling sound in the back of its throat. It continued to speak.

_I am the Listener. I hear words, cries of joy, screams of pain, moans of despair, sighs of relief. I hearken to the weeping of young ones in sorrow, to the laughter of elders remembering the past. I have caused cataclysms and catastrophes in order to hear the reactions of the victims. When it has suited me, I have halted the disasters of nature in order to listen to choruses of delight. But these times of joy and laughter and peace require more effort! And I thoroughly enjoy the sniffling and the shouting of those as ignorant as you. You may postpone your fear; I shall not come for you for some time. Perhaps you can teach yourself to be silent so that I will end you quickly for lack of entertainment. And now you look completely ridiculous! Dumbfounded, are you not? Ah, but you bore me. Leave from here the way you came. Do not return here. Meddle no longer in my work, Taqmac! I shall be listening, and watching. Do not return to this place, Taqmac._

The wolf truly was puzzled. A Listener? And why did it address him as Taqmac? He was unfamiliar with this name. His own was Nabior. He also wanted to know the true name of this listening person.

Nabior noticed a shape to his left. The Listener mumbled to himself. Something had distracted him.

_...that sound! Full of sorrow, pregnant with hope-- He must be one of the Displaced. I must find it._

The haze around the creature began to dissipate. He has lost his focus, Nabior thought to himself. He loosened one of the ropes that hung across his chest, shoulder to waist. The wolf dashed toward the shadowy form, his footfalls unheard by the Listener. He leapt high into the air, bringing down the rope around his opponent. The creature twisted to face the attacker. Nabior could see part of its face. The dim light reflected in its eyes, two textured, yellowish-green spheres marked by long, slit-like pupils. Its ears were pointed and high atop its head.

_You will suffer for this, wolf!_

The Listener was visibly vehement. His eyes narrowed. His gritted teeth bore as he shouted--or maybe they were fangs, it was hard to know for sure because Nabior could barely see them at all, mostly just a shining, white surface when the Listener's mouth opened.

The Listener raised a clenched fist against his bonds, and his body instantly became vaporous. It passed through the restrictions Nabior had fixed about him. The Listener gripped the lupine's head with a large hand. Nabior could feel the pressure increasing on his skull, as what felt like sharp claws dug into his scalp. Suddenly, a searing pain struck him behind his eyes. A brilliant flash briefly illuminated the void.

_You will regret having seen me face to face. _

The creature's maniacal voice and the strange energy emitting from its hand began to drain his conscious energy. Nabior cried in pain, shutting his eyes tightly. He forced his eyes open again to see the Listener's face more clearly. The eyes--

Suddenly, another figure appeared over the shoulder of the Listener, accompanied by the sound of a stringed instrument. The music sounded other-worldly, the tones mingling in the cavernous space, an echoic resonance of strange polyphonic melodies. The music was masterful; dissonant phrases clashed in the space, resolving delicately as the virtuoso played. This was what had distracted the Listener. Momentarily captivated, Nabior gazed intently upon the musician. He appeared to be standing outside of a small house in evening time, the sun's last rays falling about him as if to witness the wondrous performance. The wolf was unable to discern what the musician was, except that it may have been brown or orange and was possibly young, as the person was rather short.

The mesmerizing song continued, renewing the wolf's strength of will and body. The Listener had again lost focus, seemingly awe-struck by both the music itself and the affect it had on himself and Nabior. What power did this person have that it could reinforce the ardor of the mind and body? The pain stopped, and Nabior saw his chance to act. He gripped both of the creature's arms with his own powerful hands. He instantly discovered how the creature channeled the painful energy into his head. Two cables or wires ran along the outside of the Listener's arms which conducted the energy to its hands.

The Listener, startled from his thoughts back to reality, resumed his own attack. Nabior almost lost his grip in reflex as his hands and forearms were jolted and seared. The foe had managed to grab his face with one hand hand. The pain increased, but Nabior gripped harder. The hand on his face moved toward his eyes, prompting Nabior to bite it fiercely. The Listener screamed, pain shooting into his hand and arm. The hand jerked from the muzzle of the wolf. Blood oozed from the wounded appendage. The equipment on the hand began to spark and flash. Nabior, still grasping one arm firmly, shifted his weight, and, placing his other hand on its torso, he hefted his enemy over his shoulder to the ground. Unfortunately, the Listener would not be so easily dispatched. It leapt back to its feet. Before the wolf could realize what had happened, the Listener had quickly regained his hold. The musician disappeared. The Listener noticed this. Nabior would not have a chance to retaliate now.

The wolf, obviously exhausted, could no longer fight back. Two sensations registered in his brain, pain and the sharp smell of something burning. Nabior's eyes widened. He could **smell** himself burning! Another blinding flash of light exploded in the emptiness. Suddenly, a powerful wind rushed into the cavern. A steady warm glow of golden light formed around the two figures.

Tears streamed from the wolf's tightly closed eyes. He cried out, but the words were unintelligible. He cried out again, louder and in higher pitch. Instantly, his eyes reopened fully, a piercing white light emanating from them. His pupils were no longer visible. His body violently shook, whipping this way and that way in spasms. Then, surprisingly, he became very still, staring intently into the eyes of his oppressor. The Listener gazed inquisitively at the lupine. He had never seen this reaction before. The wolf looked as if it had been possessed by something outside itself. In fact, he was correct. Nabior spoke very clearly to the monster.

_Eyh onin mak tonett. Mehlirr k'a lostah peh-dehr. Q'ol manahey, tsegckhom kai fehlos kudahn. Le'hyr mek-celos qlai!_

The Listener loosed his victim immediately. His face bore the marked expression of horror. He could not move! What had the despicable beast said?! He was so frightened and angry that his stomach hurt, his body releasing chemicals in reaction to his emotional state. He tried to speak to the beast's mind in the manner he had used previously, but found that he was unable. For the first time, the Listener spoke audibly, and in a trembling voice.

"Leave here--I don't know what you are, but I will destroy you when the time comes. Leave now!" His words held no power. They were hollow, lacking the authority they seemed to have before. What he had intended to be a shout had come out as a harsh whisper. The Listener held his injured hand. Nabior blinked. His pupils were visible again. His eyes rolled back into his head. His body pitched forward, landing with a dull thud. He lay unconscious on what was presumably the floor. The Listener walked some distance away and accessed a hidden panel in the room. A circular opening appeared behind the wolf. It was some kind of portal to where the wolf lived. Nabior was pushed into the opening by beam of energy and the circular door collapsed on itself.

------------------------------------------

Bunnie Rabbot definitely had the "farmer's gene." She loved vegetables, gardening, telling stories, physical activity, and just enjoying nature like most farmers of the older days. She was often competitive and somewhat stubborn. She had the tell-tale accent of the Mobians who lived in the southern plains and forests of this continent. Her voice was very appealing, smooth and kind at times, bright and energetic at other times. Her strange exclamations, euphemisms, colloquialisms, and slang were both fascinating and amusing to her friends. Today was bright and warm, so she had decided to take a walk in the forest to look for mushrooms. Surprisingly, instead of returning home with mushrooms, she began her walk back to Knothole village with a basket full of wild strawberries. Bunnie tossed one of the tangy red fruits into her mouth. Sometimes it was better to have a change in plans, she thought to herself.

Bunnie, originally a peach colored rabbit, had been partially roboticized by Robotnik's Swatbots. She would have suffered complete roboticization and loss of her free-will if it had not been for the speed of Sonic the Hedgehog, the fastest thing alive on Mobius. Sonic had rescued her from the machine before the process was complete. She remembered the horrified look on Sonic's face when he pulled her from the machine. Her legs and left arm had already been roboticized before he arrived.

Bunnie hated what Robotnik's machine had done to her appearance. The independent rabbit hated even more that she had to depend on people so much to help her with simple things. Her total body weight had increased significantly after her arm and legs became metal, requiring that special furniture, such as a new bed and a new rocking chair, be constructed to accommodate her needs. Also, she had difficulty becoming accustomed to the tremendous strength of her robotic limbs. In her first week, she had destroyed several of her own cups and dishes, and the video disc of her favorite soap opera episode before she was able to use her robotic hand as gently as her hand of flesh. Rotor, a tinkerer and scientist, and Dr. Quack, a very competent physician, periodically ran tests and examinations on her to ensure that her cybernetic parts did not overtake her body, and that her living parts did not reject her artificial appendages. For the first few months, Bunnie had been somewhat moody, and she had reason to be.

Now she was used to her new form, and even learned to enjoy the abilities she had acquired in the process. She spent several months training her body to adapt to the changes, finally teaching herself to be as agile as she had been before the attack. Once she got moving, she could even run faster than her previous self. Her legs could extend to great distances, and she commanded vast physical strength that no other free Mobian could boast, save for maybe one. Rotor would often upgrade her equipment, outfitting her with new abilities, such as limited flight, temporary shielding, and a number of weapons. Unknowingly, Robotnik had actually created one of the most powerful weapons to ever be used in the fight against him. After Sonic had rescued her, Bunnie willingly joined the resistance against Robotnik's evil plan to rule the planet. She quickly became a vital part of the Freedom Fighters. She also gained many friends.

Bunnie halted, contemplating the recent events. Sonic had finally defeated Robotnik, but in the process, something possibly worse had occurred. Sonic had beaten the dictator and damaged the madman's latest machine of war. The machine imploded. Much of Robotnik's base, Robotropolis, (the former Mobian capital, Mobotropolis) was destroyed. Sonic barely escaped death. Although Robotnik was disintegrated, the destruction of the device released an energy the Mobians had never yet encountered. Perhaps it was a fail-safe Robotnik had planned in case he was unable to conquer Mobius with it, but no one knew for sure. What everyone **did** know was that the imploding machine weakened the barriers between the different zones. Several alternate dimensional versions of Mobius were merging with this Mobius, and the Freedom Fighters did not know how to stop it. Furthermore, many Mobians had disappeared through the rifts in these barriers, passing into other dimensions or time periods. The reverse had happened too. A couple of people were found unconscious in the forest and brought to Knothole. Questioning them proved very uninformative because most of them were either unfamiliar with inter-zonal travel (via the Cosmic Interstate or portal opening) or could remember very little.

Bunnie's eyes began to water. Four weeks ago, her cousin had disappeared. She tried to think of something more pleasant, but she could not. She sat down, leaning her back against an oak tree, and wept. It had been ten days since another loved one had gone missing. During a great storm, lightning had struck the house of Miles Prower. Due to the already unstable conditions of their zone, the house faded into another reality with Miles inside. After that, the citizens of Knothole took extra precautions to stabilize the area around the village. If something as common as lightning could be the catalyst for more disappearances, everyone was at risk. Rotor and another scientist, Sir Charles the Hedgehog (Sonic's uncle), invented a contraption that, using the magnetic energy of Power Rings, reinforced what they called the "zonal atmosphere."

_If only they had been a few days sooner,_ Bunnie thought to herself. She wiped her eyes, picked up her basket, and resumed her walk home.

Turning east, she entered a clearing. A small pond was in its center. Bunnie knelt at the bank of the pond, laying the basket next to her. Cupping her hands together, she drank from the cool, clear water. She splashed water on her face, ears, and neck. Feeling quite refreshed, she stood to her feet again, basket in hand. She began her walk around the edge of the pond, maintaining her easterly direction toward the secret village of Knothole.

Suddenly, she heard a loud crashing sound behind her. The normal person would have been startled by its volume and suddenness. Bunnie, however, knew that such sounds often preceded the arrival of her friend Sonic as he zoomed past. She half expected Sonic to wheel back around to stop in the clearing to greet her. Pretending to ignore what she thought was Sonic, she continued walking. As she came to the edge of the clearing, she heard another sound--the sound of something large and heavy dropping into the pond behind her. Bunnie knew that Sonic disliked swimming; he would never jump into any body of water unless it was absolutely necessary. She whipped around to face the pond, dropping her basket.

Instead of the attack she expected, she saw a figure sinking beneath the surface of the water. Bunnie jogged to the pond. Knowing that her weighty metal limbs might slow her progress if she tried to swim out with another person in tow, she chose another course of action. Lying on her stomach at the edge of the pond, she kicked her powerful robotic feet into the turf, digging in her toes to anchor her body. Just as the unconscious person began to disappear from vision, Bunnie quickly extended her legs like a telescope, shooting out over the pond. Her legs were strong, so she balanced perfectly a few inches over the water's surface. She bent over, dipping her upper body into the water, and caught the poor creature about the waist. Using her cybernetic arm, she lifted him up as she retracted her legs, returning to her normal length.

Bunnie flipped the silver-gray wolf onto its back and placed an ear against its chest. The rescued wolf was not breathing. Bunnie assumed that the time gap between the crash and the splash meant that the wolf had fallen a great distance, knocking the wind out of it. Bunnie immediately started the chest compressions she learned in one of the many "in-the-field" first aid courses she had taken as a Freedom Fighter. She had to be careful because it appeared that the wolf had been beaten roughly, its nose bleeding and eyes swollen. It was possible that she could hurt it further if it had broken a few ribs. The wolf was still not breathing on its own. She repositioned the lupine's head. Covering the wolf's mouth with her own, she quickly blew three short puffs of air, and then returned to the compressions. She repeated this twice more, then checked the pulse of the victim.

Bunnie was becoming a discouraged. She had already lost family and friends, now she might lose this absolute stranger. A mixed expression formed on her face. She was angry, and yet very saddened. This situation was different--she actually could do something to help this person. No, this person would not disappear or die. **She** would not allow it. Set with determination, Bunnie continued to perform CPR on the stranger. Her fleshly arm was tiring. Her burning muscles began to shake. "Of all the darned things to happen--I feel liked I've stepped into one of those hair-brained, dramatic romance novels!" Bunnie rolled her eyes, and gritted her teeth. After today, she swore to herself that she would never read another hair-brained, dramatic romance novel again.

Then the wolf coughed. Bunnie stopped the compressions, allowing the injured wolf to expel the water from its lungs. It too seemed very tired. It tried to turn itself over, but fell onto its back again. Bunnie assisted it onto its hands and knees. The wolf appeared to cough up the water more easily from this position. Suddenly, the wolf vomited. Bunnie swiftly ran to her basket, returning with a cloth. The wolf heaved a few more times, expectorating the acids from his mouth. Bunnie knelt next to him, rubbing and patting his back just as her mother had done for her when she had been ill as a child. His body was shaking from weakness. He swooned, nearly falling into the mess on the ground. Bunnie prevented this, however, reaching around his shoulders to pull him some distance away. She dragged him to the bank of the pond. The wolf took his cue and rinsed the bitter taste out of his mouth with the clean water. Bunnie soaked the cloth in the pond water. After ringing it out slightly, she sat down next to the fellow. The wolf, finished rinsing and drinking, turned toward the heroine. Bunnie proceeded to wipe the blood from his face and neck, inquiring about the cause of his injuries.

"You made quite an entrance there. What happened to you? My stars, it looks like you had a fight with a thunderstorm and lost!" Bunnie was never concerned about how people perceived her friendly, yet somewhat demonstrative personality. She liked to talk to everyone as if she had known them for years.

The wolf felt much better now. He was not certain why, but something told him that a few minutes ago, he had witnessed something terrible.

"I'm not sure. I--can't remember what happened, except that I was angry and afraid. Did you see how I got here?"

"No, sugar, I didn't. I heard a loud boom, then I heard you fall in the water. I do declare, you must've fallen pretty far, though! Uh, how's your head feelin'?"

"It hurts...a lot. But I can see fine. I just can't remember anything."

"So, you don't know who you are, or where you came from?"

"No, I'm sorry."

"Heh, don't be sorry. You can't help it yet. Well, since you can't introduce yourself, I guess I'll start the formalities! The name's Bunnie. I live in Knothole village; that's where I'll be takin' you to see a doctor. Is that alright?"

"Yes, that's fine. Knothole--sounds familiar for some reason."

"Maybe you know somebody who lives there. Can you walk?"

"Yes, but I think I need some help getting up."

Bunnie helped the wolf to his feet. He still seemed tired and weak, so Bunnie insisted that he lean on her to keep his balance. They continued their conversation as they walked. Bunnie mentioned that he might have friends from the Wolf Pack who were searching for him; perhaps they would meet one of them in Knothole. She did not notice it, but her new friend was greatly relieved by this news. He wanted to remember where he belonged. Not knowing who he was tore at his insides. Although he was very confused, he was encouraged by the young lady. She made him feel comfortable despite the awkward circumstances. He asked about what she had been doing before she saved him from drowning. After listening to her story, he almost asked for a strawberry, but he resisted the temptation since he did not want to seem rude. He wondered if he could even eat strawberries. After all, he might be allergic to them, or he might hate them completely. _Too bad_, he thought to himself, _they look like I would like them_.

Bunnie helped him climb over a fallen tree. The wolf saw that she exerted little effort in aiding him through the forest. She had to almost pick him up in some places in order to navigate the terrain without injuring him more. He was truly astonished by her physical prowess. He was much larger and more muscular than she, but she seemed to have no difficulty carrying him when it was necessary. This was when he noticed her roboticized limbs. He was deeply concerned.

"What happened to your arm and legs?" He tried not to sound too worried, since he did not want to alarm or upset her. He inwardly regretted the directness of his question.

"I wondered when you'd ask," Bunnie said with understanding. This fellow was already puzzled about many things. At the very least, she could explain her own condition to ease his mind.

"Well, I was in my garden, pullin' up weeds and such, when a couple of Swatbots jumped me. This guy named Robotnik made 'em to catch up people like us and turn us into mindless, heartless robot slaves. They stuck me in this machine to roboticize me. Thankfully, a local Freedom Fighter, Sonic the Hedgehog, herd me holler, and came to help. He destroyed the Swatbots, and pulled me from the contraption before I was completely transformed. He brought me to Knothole where I joined the Freedom Fighters. I've been helping them against Robotnik since then."

Bunnie grinned. "It sure took me a while to get used to these, though!" she said, indicating her cybernetic appendages. "I crushed a number of doorknobs before I could get my grip just right." Bunnie chuckled. She had replaced several doorknobs in a hurry so that people would not find out. Bunnie looked up into the face of her new friend. He appeared less concerned now. But he seemed slightly saddened by what she had said.

Bunnie attempted to help him understand that some good had come out of the transformation.

"You know, Robotnik made quite a mistake roboticizing me. I've helped to save a whole lot of people from his evil. If I didn't have these gizmos, I think a lot more people would have been hurt or roboticized than my arm and legs are worth." She paused for a moment. "My special abilities are what saved you, you know," she finished, patting his back gently.

The wolf could not help but smile. She was very heroic, but very humble. He really liked her, and hoped that, wherever he lived, he would be close enough to visit her from time to time. He felt very relaxed now, so the pain from the burns and cuts across his form lessened a bit.

About this time, the rabbit and wolf entered Knothole. Bunnie gave a sharp whistle as they neared the dwellings. People turned their attention to the newcomer immediately, knowing from previous experience how to assist their fellow Freedom Fighters. Two young males, a strong black bear and a small, intelligent-looking prairie dog, jogged to them with a stretcher and medical kit. They set the wolf on the stretcher as a group of the citizens went in search of Dr. Quack, who was making a number of house-calls to the elderly today. Older citizens cleared the curious children out of the path of the stretcher as the wolf was wheeled to the hospital. Bunnie did not want to leave him alone for long, but she knew that Princess Sally Acorn would want to see him soon.

------------------------------------------------------

_**-Takeiro-**_

Hmmm...This one came out much more strangely than I expected. It's interesting to watch things develop differently than one's original plan. Still, I think it will bring us to the intended destination.

Please have patience. I will bring clarity to the ambiguous characters and odd words used in this chapter.

If you can't tell, I like strawberries!

Now for the address to a group I both respect and fear:

To the Romance Novel Readers and Mega Fan-boys/Fan-girls:

It is not now, nor will it ever be, my intention to insult any of you. Your ideas and preferences are just as valid and justifiable as mine are. (Except, in my opinion, writing pornographic fiction--it is vulgar and disgusting, but I digress.) Please understand that, in order to maintain the kind of "modern southern belle" profile that I chose for Bunnie, I used the romance novel comment to hint at her hidden feelings (yes, I'm telling you to watch the details carefully). Bunnie is like many other females--she likes the sappy stuff once in a while, but is embarrassed to admit it because everyone sees her as "the tough girl." I don't pretend to have mastered feminine psychology, but I've seen this in reality a number of times. Thus, I have chosen to use this type here.

All Super-fan people: please forgive me now. There will be little romantic interest of any sort in this story (I think--). Keep this in mind, and none of you will suffer great disappointment (I hope--). I have read many terrible, horrible tales of a real character meeting a fan character and something "blossoming" between them. (I scream--) Oftentimes, I have found these to be very scary. (You scream--) The romantic elements will stay true to the basic relationships formed in the comic books series up to issue 50, meaning that no fan characters will be involved unless I am possessed by an alien life-form bent on destroying my reputation as a dateless scholar. (We all scream--) If you haven't read the comic series, or at least haven't read a great deal of it, then you'll just have to trust that what I'm writing on that matter is not based on my ideas, but Archie Comics. There is very little interpretation involved. (Ice cream!)

In short:

No Shadow, Rouge, Cream, or Tikal.

Amy is still too young to have any real romance.

Tails, like me, still thinks girls have Coodies.

If you read the ten issues before 50, Antoine isn't such a dork anymore, Geoffrey St. John gets his much needed reality check and stops being a jerk, and Hershey's role in the story finally becomes important.

Again, I apologize if I have offended or disappointed you. I welcome your reviews with open arms (and tin-foil, and body armor, and a crucifix...); you may express your love, your hatred, or your neutrality as long as you respect other readers by using proper grammar, not profanity.

THANKS ALL:-)

I earnestly hope that this is the last essay I have to write for an author's note.

_**GASP**_

Mmmmm--Strawberries...


	3. Family

1

_**Schizophreniac**_

**Chapter 2**

"**Family"**

Light filtered into the room from the eastward facing window. The trees on this side of the house usually blocked out enough of the early morning sunshine so that he could have slept longer.--and most people probably would have--But this boy had faithfully obeyed the "early to bed, early to rise" doctrine. Night-time was not that fun anyway, especially here. Most of the birds and other animals were only seen in the day. He could not fish in the dark, and hiking in the late evening could get oneself lost. He would much rather get up early. If it was good for the sun, then it should be good for him too.

He sat up in his warm bed, craning his neck to look out the window. Excellent! He had woken at just the right time. The boy watched two humming birds hover just outside his window. He was very proud of himself. The birds seemed to really like the mixture he had placed in the makeshift feeder hanging from the eave of the house. The mixture took almost a week to get just right; it had to be brightly colored and taste sweet, just like authentic flower nectar; otherwise, the birds might not like it. He could not help but giggle in delight. He remained sitting on the plush, cotton-padded mattress, fascinated by the speed of the humming birds' wings.

Something about those wings seemed familiar. As he stared at the feeding birds, his mind drifted to the edge of his memories, feigning to remind him of a specific event. However, he could not recall the memory in full, only the vague impression of something moving very quickly. Interesting--as he returned his attention to his flying visitors, he fancied that, for a moment, he could actually follow and count the strokes of the birds' wings. Suddenly, having had their breakfast, they flew away. The young fellow was still gazing out the window.

"Sixty-four--"

It was yet another thing he did not understand about himself. Though he was quite puzzled, he chose not to dwell on the idea. He had many wonderful things to do today, and mulling over something for which he had no explanation would only make him grumpy. He still often wondered how he ended up here. Since he liked this place so much, he ignored that question as well.

The boy shifted and stretched. He had not had such restful slumber since his arrival in this strange place. Flipping the blankets back, he slid to the side of the bed. As he reached for the shoes he kept under his bed, he discovered that he had left his gloves on all night. He removed them, and tossed them into a small round basket by the door. He grabbed his red shoes from under the bed, and some socks and a fresh pair of gloves from the chest of drawers next to the closet. He hopped to the floor, walked to the doorway, and set his things next to the basket.

Before he left, he made his bed and quickly scanned the room for any gloves or socks that might have hidden from him. Because the carpet was a dark green color, anything white would be easy to spot on the floor. There was nothing under the bed anymore. He checked the closet to see if the white clothes had wandered in there, but all he saw was that the floor in the closet needed to be swept badly. However, since he had a promise to keep, he would have to clean it later. He placed the clean socks and gloves in his shoes, which all went in the basket. The orange two-tailed fox lifted the basket and carried it out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

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The wolf laid on the hospital bed, wishing someone would find the doctor quickly. His head hurt, and he still remembered very little. Worst of all, though, was that he was extremely hungry. One can only imagine how grateful he was to see an older raccoon nurse enter the room with a tray. The tray was covered with a tan plastic lid, so he could not see what she had brought him, but it smelled wonderful. She sat it down on the cart-like table on the other side of the room. He waited patiently as she checked all the tubes connected to him. No doubt she was examining the work of the younger, less experienced nurse who had already done all this. The raccoon woman seemed to be very pleasant, grinning slightly as she briskly walked around the cot, first looking at the I.V. tube then reading a chart. She was rather quiet--or maybe focused.

"And how are you sir?" she asked, rolling the mobile table to his bedside.

"I feel better than I look, I'm sure," he replied with a chuckle.

He winced. _Ow, no more laughing._ The nurse's grin widened as she pivoted the table-top over his lap.

"Dr. Quack was found a few minutes ago. He's finishing up, and then he'll be right over," she stated, stopping for a moment to straighten her white apron.

The canine was very glad to hear this, but right now he was preoccupied with the warm tray in front of him.

"My name is Rita. If you need anything at all, or your vision blurs or you have trouble breathing, pull this chord. We'll come down to check on you."

She lifted the lid from the tray, revealing a plate of seasoned grilled chicken, with steamed broccoli, a dinner roll, and a cool quarter slice of lemon. A cloud of steam rushed from the food into the free air, seemingly thankful to be released from its confines beneath the lid. Next to the plate sat a cup full of ripe, red strawberries. A second cup sat on a saucer, containing hot brewed tea. The lupine looked up from the meal to the nurse. He was confused, but his eyes only showed relief and delight. "Not too shabby is it," remarked the female raccoon, visibly trying not to laugh. "Want some honey for your tea?" she jested.

He looked so silly; his eyes were nearly swollen shut now, but his facial expressions were nonetheless quite vibrant. She was able to maintain composure, reminding herself that laughing could either offend him or cause him pain as he laughed too.

"By the way, the strawberries are from your friend," she said with a wink and a grin. The wolf missed the obvious implication, having already returned his attention to his hunger. Nabior selected a large strawberry and bit into it. The flavor was an excellent balance of sweetness and tanginess. He suddenly emptied the entire cup of fruit into his mouth. Rita burst into cheerful laughter. It seemed to be one of her favorite things to do, Nabior thought to himself.

"Don't forget the cord if you need anything. We're just down the hall. I'll come see you in a little to see how you're doing, alright, honey?" She stopped in the doorway, waiting to see if he understood. With his mouth full of the rest of the strawberries, he nodded. He too began to chuckle, trying his best to keep the berries in his mouth. Between gasps for breath, Rita managed to bid him farewell.

"Honey, I hope we keep you around for a while! We need someone like you around here."

_Someone like me? _Nabior wondered, sipping from his tea. Nabior looked down at the cup of tea, a look of dissatisfaction in his eyes. The nurse was nearly out of the room before Nabior could get her attention.

"Ms. Rita," he called after her, "could I have some milk?"

The raccoon turned around and approached him.

"I'm sorry. What's the matter, honey?" she questioned, quickly coming to his bedside.

"Could you bring me some milk?" he repeated.

"You don't like the tea, huh?" she asked as if she had foreseen it. "Personally, I prefer iced tea with lots of sugar, but the kitchen staff always gives out herbal tea to patients. Supposed to be good for you," she added, chuckling as she reached for the cup on the tray.

"No, it's not that. The tea is fine. Except—there's something missing. It's just—"The wolf strained to think of the reason for his strange request. "I don't know. I always put milk in my tea," he stated simply.

Rita smiled broadly. "Honey, think about what you just said while I get you some milk."

Rita left the room, leaving behind a rather puzzled patient. The wolf thought that perhaps he had said something inappropriate. But if that were the case, then why would the nurse have been so pleased?

Rita reentered the room with a carton of milk in hand. It had been sitting in ice water, so the outside of the carton was very wet. Rita set the blue and white carton on Nabior's food tray and wiped her wet hands on her apron.

"Did you figure it out?" she said, sitting in the chair beside him.

"Figure what out? What did I say?"

"Why did you want the milk?"

"I always put milk in my tea--"

"Do you? Always?"

"I have since I was young."

"That's kind of a strange habit, wouldn't you say? I don't know very many people who do that around here."

"I guess it's a little unusual." _Like this conversation,_ Nabior thought with slight frustration.

"What made you start this habit?"

Suddenly, Nabior understood. Bit by bit, Rita's interrogation had pulled some of his memory to the surface. He remembered the event clearly. It was not much, but it was something nonetheless. The memory began to grow in his mind, connecting to other much older memories. He remembered his father's face and voice. He also remembered that his father had died. Somehow he still could not recall his own name—not even the voice of his father calling for him. Neither could he remember how his father passed away; he simply knew that it was so. Only a portion of his life memories had returned to him.

Why such a simple thing? Why such a bittersweet memory?

Nabior realized that he had been silent for a few seconds. He began to relate his memory to Rita. As he spoke, he tried to fight back the deep sadness that cascaded through his heart.

"One of the last times I saw my father, he was meeting with a friend of his. I loved my father," he said, grievingly. His hazel eyes became agitated and red. Laboring to hold back tears, he continued, though his voice sounded broken at times.

"My father held great respect for his friend, and loved him like a brother. Naturally, I liked him too, in part because he was my father's best friend. He had only come a few times before, but I noticed that my father always had food ready for him. I never knew why until I tried spying on them. Every time the man came, they always ate the same meal before they did anything else. I guess it was a tradition. The last time they met, I watched from the tree above them--to see what was so special about the whole thing. They saw me though, mostly because the small branch I was sitting on broke under my weight. My head hurt for a couple of days, sort of like it does now."

The lupine rubbed his head and smiled. This was not really a sad memory.

"Before I fell, I saw my father's friend put milk in his tea. I already imitated a lot of the things he did, and because this tradition was something personal he shared with my father, he became even more admirable to me. Really, everyone I knew liked him. Some of the ladies would talk about his visits and all the kind things he did for them. The men of the pack said he was one of the bravest men they knew. He was also very intelligent, and was always considerate; he helped me and my friends in our lessons. He even saved my father's life once. I wanted to be that—a courageous, smart, kind, and honorable hero. So I started drinking my tea with milk in it."

Nabior's ears grew red and drew back flat against his head as he mixed the cold milk with his warm tea. His face felt warm. Truthfully, he was embarrassed to be telling a total stranger about his fascination with his childhood hero. Yet, for some reason, Nabior felt very relieved. Maybe recovery would be quicker than he expected, he thought, stirring the foggy mixture in his cup.

"People say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Maybe that's why he tolerated my foolishness," he speculated, sipping from the cup again.

Rita leaned forward in her chair, placing her hand on the wolf's arm, and looked earnestly into his eyes. "That is not foolish. Young people need role models; they _need_ heroes. It is always easier to reach a goal if you can see that someone else has already done it."

Her serious expression faded back to her cheerful grin. Nabior noticed that he could barely see her eyes when she smiled.

"Now," she began, leaning back in her chair and folding her hands in her lap, "what was his name?"

Nabior nearly said something, but he halted suddenly. Frustration marked his face. Within moments, his expression morphed into one of despair. _What **was **__his name? _Nabior thought, _I can't even remember what he looked like._

Rita saw his expression, and leaned forward again, placing her hand on his arm again. "Now don't worry. It doesn't all come at once. If it did, you might end up with a much bigger headache. You'll think of it," she assured him. "You eat your food and just relax for a while," she said, standing up. "I'll come back to look in on you a little later."

As the raccoon left, a female chipmunk, maybe forty or so years old, stopped just outside the room. The two women chatted for a while on the other side of the door, although Nabior was unaware of their presence. Nabior sat in the bed, searching his mind for a picture of his father's best friend, but it was useless. All he kept seeing was a vague impression of the man, like a silhouette of a person behind a window shade, or a reflection of a person in murky water. The patient began to eat his food again, hoping that it would help him calm down. Meanwhile, the conversation in the hall continued. Nabior had just finished eating when someone stepped into the doorway.

"Hi there. I thought you might like some company. Mind if I come in?"

The wolf gestured to the seat next to his bed. She gracefully walked over to it, removed the red shawl from her shoulders, and sat in the cushioned chair. Her gray hair was put up in bun-style; she held a brown paper sack in her lap. The lupine felt that some sort of greeting was necessary, but was unsure of how to go about it.

"Uh, thank you for visiting. I'm sorry, but I don't remember my name, so maybe you should start the introductions," he said, grinning. He mentally rebuked himself for making a joke out of it, but when his visitor giggled, he eased up on himself.

"Oh! Heaven sakes, don't worry about a little thing like that! As for the introductions--" The older woman flipped her gray bangs away from her face. Smiling cheerfully, she stood up, walked to his side, and extended her hand. "I'm Rosie."

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Bunnie gave the medical staff all the information she knew about the event at the pond. They would need this information in order to safely proceed with the lupine's treatment. They had already started a number of tests and examinations of the young wolf when she finally left to speak with Princess Acorn.

Bunnie walked through the hospital doors and bumped into Rotor. Actually, in her hurry, Bunnie knocked over the purple walrus. He fell on his back and his cap flipped off his head.

"Oof! Oh, sorry, Bunnie. What'cha doing here? Visiting one of the kids?" Rotor asked, placing his yellow cap back on his head and sitting up.

"Rotor, sugar, I'm sorry!" Bunnie exclaimed, "I didn't see you comin'."

She helped her friend to his feet, and then answered his question.

"No, I came across a fellow in the woods who nearly got his brains beat out of him. I know it sounds funny—"

She hesitated, thinking that Rotor might think her story was ridiculous.

"I was walking by the pond. Then, he just appeared in the air and, sploosh, fell in the water. He was unconscious, so I had to fish him out and give him CPR. He woke up, but— He couldn't remember anything, Rotor. I brought him back here to get patched up." She turned and walked a few steps away from the walrus.

Bunnie looked so tense and worried that Rotor thought he would try to brighten things up a little.

"CPR, eh?" Rotor said thoughtfully. "Was he cute?"

Rotor sounded completely serious as he made this remark. Since Bunnie was facing away from him, she could not see his silly grin. However, she was not nearly as frazzled as Rotor had expected, so she just played along.

"Yeah, when I found him. Now he's probably swollen and wrapped up in casts and bandages. Hmm—such a waste of a handsome face," she sighed.

Sadly, Rotor was much more gullible than even Bunnie knew. He stood there, staring at her awkwardly. His cheeks felt hot. "That was a joke, Bunnie."

She turned to Rotor with a crooked grin on her face. "I know, sugar, but I still might have to knock you over again," she exclaimed with a laugh.

"Okay! Okay! I'm sorry," he apologized, throwing his hands up in surrender.

"You said he couldn't remember who he was?" he said, trying desperately to change the subject.

"Couldn't remember a blessed thing when I found him," she replied.

"He's the fifth isn't he?"

"Yeah."

"I guess we'll have to check around to see if anyone knows where he came from—"

Bunnie interjected in an instant.

"Why, thank you, sugar! It's so nice of you to volunteer like that. And while you're doin' that, I'll go fill in ol' Sally-girl, 'kay?" Without hesitation, she trotted away. Before she was too far, she turned and shouted,

"Get his room number; you'll want to talk to him! Contact Lupe too; he's from the Wolf Pack!"

Rotor smiled. Bunnie definitely knew how to delegate responsibility.

Bunnie jogged to Sally Acorn's temporary residence. The journey to the Princess' secluded dwelling took Bunnie up many flights of wooden stairs and across several bridges and platforms, to a very far corner of the uppermost levels of the Knothole tree-houses. For Bunnie, it required little effort to traverse the maze. She knew the pathways of Knothole well and she could navigate them more quickly than most people when she skipped five steps at a time with her robotic legs. Soon, she stood at the doorstep of the small house. Before she was able to knock, a relaxed feminine voice called from inside the dwelling. "Come in, Bunnie!" Apparently, the Princess had heard her heavy footsteps outside the door.

The young rabbit opened the door and stepped inside. The small space she entered was only large enough for a bed, nightstand, a couch, a small table, and two chairs. Another smaller door was on the opposite wall from the entrance. Bunnie assumed this was the washroom. As Bunnie shut the door behind her, she noticed the sound of classic guitar playing. Sally sat in the bed on the left, reading a book and leaning against the stack of pillows behind her.

Princess Sally Acorn still retained her place as leader of the Freedom Fighters despite the defeat of Robotnik and recent return of her father, the squirrel, King Maximilian. King Max, as he was called by many of the Freedom Fighters, suffered from a strange condition that caused much of his body to transform into crystal. Although in appearance Sally was more like her chipmunk mother, her personality was much like her father's. She was an excellent leader, but sometimes very stubborn.

Sally placed the book on the nightstand next to the bed. "I think that's enough music for now, Nicole," Sally spoke to something in her lap. "May I suggest a recharge, Sally?" a computerized female voice asked as the music ceased. "Sounds good," Sally agreed and lifted a small handheld computer from her lap. She removed a battery-charger from the drawer on the front of the nightstand on her right. Nicole, the seemingly alive computer, powered down as she was placed in the charger, and set next to the book on the night-stand.

"It's about time you came up here. I know I need to rest, but it gets lonely up here. I'm starting to feel like something placed on the top shelf of a cabinet--never really that far away, but no one remembers where I am. It's very dull."

Sally Acorn hunched forward, leaning her head on her hand, trying to look as bored and pitiful as she could manage. She was unable stay that way for long. Her back was still sore from the fall she had suffered weeks ago. She tensed, and straightened her back. She had gained a newfound appreciation for high places since the accident. Bunnie walked over to readjust the pillows behind her close friend.

"Stop that--no one's forgotten about you," she rebuked. "--And you're starting to sound like Sonic," Bunnie added with a wink.

Sally pretended to be highly offended by the remark, placing a hand on her collar. "I would NEVER--," she whispered.

"That's 'cause y'all don't like chili dogs," Bunnie stated casually.

The Princess grinned. There was no limit to Sonic's appetite for chili dogs. Leaning back against her re-fluffed pillows, Sally Acorn inquired after the purpose of this visit.

"So, what brings you to the top shelf?"

At this remark, Bunnie displayed mock annoyance at the return of the 'top shelf' idea.

"Can't a girl just pop in to talk to her best friend?"

"Not recently. There's way too much happening for this to be a casual visit."

"Well, Sally-girl, unfortunately, you're right. We've got another visitor who doesn't know where he came from."

"I don't mean to sound cold, but is that all? You could have let Rotor and Dr. Quack deal with that." Sally knew that it must have been a complex matter. Otherwise, they would not have allowed anyone to bother her with business while she recuperated from her injuries.

"Sally, he looks like he's been run over by a Swatbot transport about twelve times. He's beat up and burnt. I think he used to be gray, but he doesn't look that way anymore. Something happened to him before he got here, and it nearly killed him."

Princess Sally examined the expression on her friend's face. There was a great concern there, one much greater than she was communicating in speech.

"Bunnie, what's really wrong?"

Bunnie shifted in her stance. She finally decided to move a chair next to the bed so she could sit. The back of her ears felt irritated as she sat. She smoothed out the hair the back of her right ear. They always seemed to frizz out when she was nervous or worried.

"Sally," she began quietly, "he's from the Wolf Pack."

Sally too began to appear worried. She straightened herself up a bit more and began to think aloud.

"Well, I don't know of anyone who would target them because of Drago. The Wolf Pack felt the most betrayed by what happened. Their entire lives are based on honor. In fact, their group has seen the least betrayal out of all the Freedom Fighters."

"No, it's not that."

Bunnie fidgeted in her seat. Obviously, she had not said what was really bothering her. She could feel the irritation on her left ear now, but she forced herself to ignore it.

"Sally, I don't believe any Freedom Fighter did this. The Wolf Pack is a strong bunch. They train their kids in the same survival skills that teach their fighters. One o' Lupe's pals could tangle with a whole mob and come out with less than a scratch! This fellow--he was just too battered. We've got some serious trouble comin' our way. If we can't help him get his memory back, we may not be able to keep this from happening again."

Sally's gaze lowered. The last thing they needed was another war. Knothole needed time to recover from the damage caused by Robotnik's Ultimate Annihilator. Another major conflict now would drastically lower the morale of the already heavily discouraged Mobians. In reality, the people of Mobius may not have the strength to fight another war.

"Should I talk to him?" Sally asked, looking into her friends eyes.

"Are you up to it, Sally-girl?"

Sally thought for a moment, and then carefully sat up in the bed. She removed the linens from her legs. "Help me get freshened up, Bunnie."

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The two leaned closer toward each other. The red panda looked deep into his female companion's eyes. The young gray squirrel blushed and looked away from him. "I thought you loved Samantha," the female squirrel nervously whispered. "Samantha is just a co-worker, that's all. Rebecca, _you _are the only person who has ever mattered to me."

The red panda gripped her shoulders, forcing the young lady to look at him. "I love _you_."

Again, they leaned toward each other. Each could feel the other's breath on their faces. Then--

"Ugh--" The television suddenly shut off. A human male of twenty years of age held the remote control is his right hand. "Even here, the hospital TV's only play soap operas--" The man fidgeted in the cot. He hated hospitals.

From down the hall, a couple of individuals could be heard in animated conversation. He listened carefully, straining to overhear any piece of news. Suddenly, he realized that he was not listening to a conversation. A woman was talking to herself with different voices. "Great. The crazies have gotten out." The thin young man rose from the bed and slowly walked to the doorway to observe what was happening down the hall. His legs were still shaky, and with his left arm broken, he had difficulty bracing himself in the doorway. He peered around the corner of the door. No, the voice was on his left. He looked the other direction. To his surprise, his brown eyes saw something much more commonplace: a woman reading a book to children.

The female was an attractive black and white cat. Each of her wrists was adorned with a single gold bracelet. A blue bandana hung from the left side of her neck, and she wore what appeared to be a khaki vest. This reminded the young man of a cowboy from an old western movie. Because his mind was unaccustomed to thinking in Mobian terms, he mentally compared her to the cats he had always seen. _–Longer fur than the neighbor's cat, but not really poofy either._ _Nice voice though--like an actress'. Heh, I always thought cats made the most annoying noises._

He suddenly realized that his comparisons were rather unfair. The cats from his home were selfish and always getting hit by cars. This creature he was looking at was a person. She was visibly much more person-like in appearance. On top of that, she could talk. That was very unlike his neighbor's annoying animal. Neither was she selfish. Out of kindness, she was reading a story to the sick and injured children in the hospital.

The young man was so wrapped up in his own thoughts that he had not heard the nurse come down the hall from the other direction. She waited for him to notice her, but he did not look her way. "Excuse me, sir--" she began. The thin human was startled by her address. He turned to face her.

"Aren't you supposed to be resting?" asked the nurse, a collie of about thirty years of age.

"Yeah, but I heard something funny down the hall. I guess it was just story time for the kids."

"How about you take your medication, then I can take you down the hall to listen to the last story," the nurse offered with a grin.

"Sounds okay to me." _Anything sounds interesting right now._

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"There! Now you've got the hang of it," Rosie said. On the other side of the hopital, Nabior was learning to crochet from Knothole's foremost expert on the craft. Due to his soreness, as well as his large fingers, it had been somewhat frustrating at first. However, the practice quickly worked the soreness out of his hands, which made it much easier to do as he was instructed.

Rosie was pleased. She had assumed that he had asked for a demonstration simply out of courtesy. Surprisingly, the young wolf seemed to enjoy this exercise. Rosie was delighted in his ability to learn so quickly. He was much slower than she was, but he was able to do everything she showed him. His large fingers, however, proved to get in the way sometimes.

Rosie studied his hands for a moment. As was the case with most Mobians, one hand was slightly larger than the other, indicating the favored use of that hand. Thus, she concluded that this wolf was right handed. She observed some old scarring on the palm of his right hand and the outer side of his left hand. She believed this indicated that his occupation was dangerous: that he may have been a scout or that he worked with machines. Perhaps he was a craftsman of some type.

Rosie's attention was brought back to their project when she noticed that her companion was having some difficulty. She reached out to assist him. As she helped him out of the dilemma, the observer in her crept out to discover just a little more. The wolf's hands were callused, but in odd places. His fingertips were rougher than his palms. This aroused her curiosity.

"You don't remember anything then?" she asked suddenly.

"No ma'am," he replied.

"Well, how about this: I could guess a little about you, and you could tell me if it sounds familiar."

"We could try that."

"Your hands are very flexible, yet very strong. You have scars on them here and here," she said pointing first to his left hand, then to his right hand. "And, your fingertips are callused. I would say that, regardless of what you do for a living, you've made at least a little time to learn to play music."

Nabior was caught off-guard by the bundle of information she had thrown his way. She seemed to know more about him than he himself did. Nevertheless, he was not discouraged by her observations, he was intrigued. This was an opportunity to learn something about his identity, and he would be foolish not to take it.

"You are very perceptive Ms. Rosie. What makes you think I am a musician, though?"

"The flexibility of you hands means that you use them in a range of motion that is slightly unnatural. Rather than just being strong from the same kind of use everyday, they are quick and nimble like a musician's. The callused fingers may mean that you play a guitar. I know someone who owns a guitar, and his hands are the same way. You know, I could arrange for him to come over, if you'd like."

"I would like that. Maybe he can play for me to help me remember."

Nabior hesitated for a moment. "Tell me. Do you play an instrument?" he asked.

Rosie giggled. The poor man was baffled by her strange habit. She thought she had better explain.

"No dear, I don't. Over the years, I've just learned to see these little things about people. Most people overlook them, but it's the little things that can tell you the most about somebody. I like to help people. Befriending them and talking with them is one of the best ways to help. I guess my funny quirks make it easier for me to talk to people."

Just then, the door opened inwards. A white, middle-aged duck of small stature entered the room. He had a doctor's travel bag and a clipboard in hand. He set them down on a table in the corner, and then pulled a wooden chair over to Nabior's bedside.

"Forgive my interruption, Miss Rosie. And I am sorry for being somewhat late as well, young man. I still have to make house-calls once in a while. I am Dr. Quack, the chief physician of Knothole. Now, I've read the report on the way over. It says that you appear to have suffered only a minor fracture in your left leg, other than the burns and some minor bruises and cuts." Dr. Quack showed the wolf the x-ray images and a few other reports.

"These burns seem to have been caused by electrocution, and the fracture and bruises by a series of falls."

"A series of falls, doctor? They didn't all come from falling into the pond?" asked the young wolf.

"No. The leg fracture and large bruises on your side and arm are probably from that, though. The other bruises are consistent with a fight. And these cuts on your head--maybe from some kind of metal prongs--look like the origin of the electricity. Being that close to your head, you could have easily died, but you seem to be one lucky fellow. I think that your lost memory is a result of the electrocution, not the fall."

Dr. Quack looked concerned. The information was sketchy, and without the memory of his patient, he would be unable to obtain the answers he desired. His patient also appeared to be distraught. As Dr. Quack browsed over the reports again, he saw a note that he had not previously noticed.

It read:

_Had difficulty getting accurate readings with a number of the tests, especially the x-ray. Cannot explain anomaly. Interference during and after tests. Unless all equipment needs repair, patient must be the cause. Dr. Quack must PERSONALLY REPEAT ALL TESTS._

The doctor was clearly puzzled. He remained in deep thought for a couple of minutes.

"Doctor--"

Dr. Quack awoke from his trance-like state. "Oh, forgive me Miss Rosie. I'm sorry young man. Something in these reports got me thinking about--something else. Hmm...if you're feeling up to it now, we need to run a couple of tests again. They'll be the same ones you had earlier. We want to double check the results on a few of these."

"I feel well enough, thank you," answered Nabior.

"Good! Then, if you will help me, Miss Rosie, we'll go ahead and get them done before evening."

Rosie and the doctor helped the patient into a wheelchair, and went down the hall to one of the special examination rooms.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steam rose from the pot of boiling water over the small fire behind the house. Using a folded towel to protect his hand from the heat, the boy gripped the handle and poured the water into a wash basin. Satisfied with the amount of water in the basin, he dumped the contents of the small round basket into the water. As he washed the white gloves and socks, his mind once again drifted to how he had arrived here. He could not remember anyone living here before-- at least, not anyone like him. Aunt Catherine had been here a long time, yet she too seemed to know things that she could not have learned on her own.

The boy realized that he had stopped washing the clothes, so he forced himself back to the task at hand. Why look back on unexplainable things when he could look forward to an enjoyable brunch with Aunt Catherine?

The heat and steam from the laundry made the boy breath heavily. It relaxed him. "That's what I need," the boy said to himself. He finished the laundry and hung them up to dry on a rope he had stretched from the corner of the house to the tree. He filled the pot again and placed it over the fire once more. This time, however, he took the hot water to an odd looking wooden box.

The box was rectangular and was slightly taller than the young boy. It had no top or bottom, except the stony ground beneath it, and was hollow. One of the sides was set on makeshift hinges like a door, so that the box had the function of a booth. The boy climbed atop the step ladder next to the box and poured the steaming water into a large black, kettle-like tank just above the box. He repeated this process a number of times until a sufficient amount of water was in the tank. He then removed his shoes, socks, and gloves, and set them in a neat pile on a rock just outside the box. He stepped into the box, shutting the door behind him and putting on the latch to keep it closed. A metal apparatus, consisting of a pipe and what may have once been a watering can nozzle (it still had floral designs on it), protruded from the top of the box. A chain hung from the base of the nozzle, which was connected to a strong metal hinge and plate. When he pulled the chain, a steady stream of water was released from the tank. This was his own creation--his homemade version of a common shower.

The water cascaded over his head and body. He was very relaxed. He bent his head forward to allow the hot water to splash against the back of his neck. A few of the water droplets escaped the main stream of the falling water, landing on the back of his ears. His pointed ears twitched reflexively.

He stood upright again, bumping his right elbow against the door. He retrieved the brush from the small shelf to his left, and began to wash. The long-handled brush scrubbed the hard-to-reach spot in the middle of his back. If it had been warmer weather, much of his thick orange-brown fur would be brushed out as he scrubbed. Unfortunately, he would have to deal with his winter coat for a few weeks longer.

The fox child finished rather quickly, and exited the shower-box. Still dripping, he unplugged the hole on the bottom of the water tank. A small trench he had previously dug carried all the water away from the house. He began to dry himself with the towel he had used for the pot. Though he was mostly dry, it was difficult to rid his thick fur of the dampness. His two tails were still quite wet. He spun them around rapidly for a few seconds to more thoroughly dry them. This, however, threw him off balance, and he nearly landed in the laundry basin. This was fortunate though, in that it reminded him to empty the laundry basin and extinguish the fire. He put out the fire with the water from the basin, and then put on his socks, shoes, and gloves.

The young fox took his towel to the clothes line. Just as he was hanging it up, he saw that he had made a mistake. He had not been careful enough to face a different direction when he dried out his tails. The breeze he had created kicked dust up onto some of his clean clothes, many of which were now wrapped over the top of the rope. He removed a damp glove from the line. It was now a dingy brown color.

Miles laughed at his mistake. He had created extra work for himself, but he got a good laugh out of it.

Catherine Ames was an older, white-skinned woman who had once had light brown hair. She was now getting up in years (although she never let on, she remained very energetic and healthy), so her hair was beginning to gray. She had strong, nimble hands, bright hazel eyes, and she always wore a long skirt and blouse. She usually wore some combination of blue and orange because she liked bright colors, especially those found in the sky. She had never grown very tall, but you should never tell her this because, like most people who are not very tall, she learned how to act even taller than most tall people. It came very easy for her because she had grown up with two older brothers who later became athletes.

What is so special about this woman, you ask? Every aunt is like this? Perhaps this is true--my aunts act much like this as well. However, this woman was the only person that a certain young fox knew. And when you consider that this woman was a human who also did not belong here, then you might begin to understand the bond they shared.

Catherine was an expert musician. She taught her young friend everything she knew about the instrument he had always wanted to play, the violin. She knew the cello and piano too. She loved to garden, and knew almost anything there was to know about the herbs and flowers of her former home. Being an intelligent woman, she kept many books in her house as well. The only thing she could not do was cook.

This was very unfortunate since it is the responsibility of all aunts to cook well for their nieces and nephews; Mrs. Ames just never learned the art. She was always busy studying, playing music, and spending time with her husband. Strangely enough, Miles, her young "nephew," could cook very well for someone his age. In exchange for music lessons, he taught her to cook. Both learned very quickly.

Aunt Catherine, as she was nicknamed by her young companion, lived about a mile from the only other house on this side of the mountains. Both of the dwellings were on a small area of land surrounded by high mountains. Neither had traveled far enough to reach the base of the mountains, but this was because each thought it would be unsafe.

Aunt Catherine stood over her small wood burning stove in the little kitchen shack built about twenty-five feet from the main house. She had just finished cooking the surprise dish for her companion when she saw him walk into the clearing around her house. She quickly set the plates on the picnic table.

"Good morning!" called the orange figure from the other side of the clearing.

"I'm quite sure it's closer to noon now!" the older woman loudly replied, laughing.

The table was set, so Catherine turned to face the approaching visitor. "Good day, then," the boy said, producing from behind his back a small animal. "Oh, a sugar glider..." Catherine muttered. The creature resembled a mixture of a flying squirrel and an Australian possum, having the fur and membranes of a flying squirrel and the head shape and coloration more similar to the possum. It was small enough to stretch across the woman's hand as the young boy handed it to her. It was mostly gray, having black ears, a black stripe down the center of its head, a pink nose, and a long black-tipped tail. The sugar glider was absolutely adorable. It nibbled on a small piece of acacia bark. Surprisingly, the critter was very calm. It even ascended Catherine's arm to sit atop her shoulder. "Thank you, Miles. I've never gotten to see one this close before."

Miles pulled out a chair for Catherine. They both sat. Catherine lifted the lid from a small tray on the table, revealing a dozen pancakes, perfectly round and rather warm. Miles was thrilled. She had finally mastered her project. She handed him a plate on which she had placed several of the cakes. Miles could feel the heat radiating from them. He inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of the meal prepared for him. Though he could easily smell the cakes and butter, something else caught his attention. Noticing this, Catherine offered him a small bowl containing a brown substance. _Wonderful!_ Miles thought to himself. She had gone to the trouble of finding maple sap to complete the dish.

Miles eyed the bowl of maple sap hungrily. Catherine assured him that she had a bowl of sap for herself, and she watched him pour the entire bowl over the stack of pancakes. She looked at his expression eagerly, hoping that he would approve. This was the test of her new skill. She was pleased to see that he thoroughly enjoyed the brunch. "The only thing that could make this better," Miles began, "would be a tall glass of--" Before he could finish his sentence, Aunt Catherine stood up and left the table. Miles sat for a moment, wondering what she was doing. She returned quickly with a pitcher. She poured something into a glass on a small table behind Miles. She reached over his shoulder, setting a glass of cold milk in front of him. She took her seat again as the fox guzzled half of the glass before returning to his attack on the pancakes.

Catherine grinned contentedly. She had always wished she could cook, though her greatest desire was to have a child. Catherine loved to be with children. Although he was somewhat older, Miles fulfilled these two dreams. Her relationship with Miles allowed her to impart to a child, while at the same time, learn and develop herself.

It was truly strange. She did not know where she was, or how she got there. She should be shocked to see an animal walking upright on two legs, especially a fox with _two_ tails. She should be terrified of such an animal that was large, intelligent, and could speak. In fact, she should be afraid of everything in her surroundings. Yet, for some reason, she was not. Something about the fox made her feel as if she belonged in that place, at least for a season.

Suddenly, she realized something. He was not a fox, really. He was a boy, just like the children she used to see playing in the street or following their parents about the supermarket. She felt an attachment to him, a strong emotional tie that she could not shake. There was more to it though. A feeling in her stomach, like a voice calling out from the depths of her spirit, told her to consider another idea. Although there was no possible physical relation, Miles was family. He really was her nephew.

Miles saw the distant look in Catherine's hazel eyes. He wiped his mouth with the blue napkin that had been sitting on his lap. "Aunt Catherine, what are you thinking?" inquired the young boy with a smile. At first, she gave no reply. She simply looked at him. Finally, she answered with another question.

"Miles, what have I told you about my life before I met you?"

"Only that you had been here by yourself for a long time."

"It seemed like a long time." Catherine was visibly pained, as if she had to say something, but wished she did not need to say it. "Miles, I mean, what have I told you about my life before I came here."

The young fox leaned back in his chair. "Um, you lived in a farm house in Missouri with your husband. You rented your land to grow crops. Your husband was an automobile mechanic, but had served as a corporal in the army."

"Yes, Patrick was a cook in the army. Kind of ironic—I never learned to cook because someone else in my family always knew how to. Pat cooked for his family when he was young. All boys in his family, you know," she chuckled. "He learned to work on cars and tractors from his father."

Miles placed a couple more pancakes on his plate and began to butter them.

"Who taught you music?" he asked.

"Oh, we had a musical family. Mother knew some piano, and could sing very well. Father taught himself the fiddle, as he called it, and he could sing pretty well too. I took lessons for cello from a man in town named Steven Kindle. I wanted to add a new instrument to my family's orchestra," she said with a giggle.

"My family reunions always had lots of music. My brothers were content to dance, though. Tom and Dan preferred athletics. Maybe that's why they were drafted too. Tom and Dan both made it home, but Dan was in bad shape. He was tired and weak; he died two weeks after being back in the states. He and his wife, Miranda, never had any children. Tom married a couple years after he came back. Her name was Iyko. Her parents were Japanese immigrants. They had twin girls who ended up going to college in New York."

Catherine seemed to remember whatever it was that had saddened her before. She looked down at her napkin and began playing with it. Miles swallowed the last bit of pancake and stretched back in his chair again. Then he noticed her expression.

"You miss them."

"I miss them all very much," she muttered, a tear running down her cheek, "but I probably won't see them again."

Miles, too, began to feel sad. His memories were vague and distorted. He did not even have the luxury of missing someone. He wiped his face with the back of his hand to hide the wetness on his own face.

Catherine looked back to Miles. "I wish there was some way we could get back there. I think you'd like it there. Patrick and I have always wanted a child."

The fox grinned as he thought about it. Although he knew he would enjoy working on cars and tractors with Mr. Patrick, he wondered about what would happen if people found out that a talking animal lived at the Ames residence. Still, it made him feel good that Aunt Catherine would want to take him.

Miles thought for a moment longer. He had ignored many of his strange feelings lately, but perhaps it was time to talk to Aunt Catherine about them.

"Aunt Catherine," Miles began, leaning forward, "do you think they're still looking for us?"

"I'm sure of it. If your family is anything like Patrick, they've probably got everyone in the county searching for us," she said, smiling and wiping her eyes with her napkin.

Miles shifted in his seat. Catherine saw the look of uncertainty on his face. It was as if he wanted to say something, but did not know where to start. Catherine decided to encourage him to speak.

"Have you remembered anything about your home?"

Almost immediately, the child began to weep uncontrollably. He was bent over, resting his forehead in his palms with his elbows on the table. Catherine jumped up from her chair and rushed to his side. She stood next to him, and placed her hand on his shoulder.

"Come on, Miles. Let's go inside for a bit. We can clean up later," she suggested.

She hugged him as he stood up, and the two walked toward the pale blue house.

* * *

_**-Takeiro-**_

I'm still not sure I liked how this turned out. I can't tell you how many times I scrapped the whole thing and started over. After having a friend look over my first brainstorm draft (which I recommend that all of you do before posting anything for the public to see), we both concluded that that I should never write anything at 3 A.M. ever again. This is _so much better_ than the first simply because I didn't rush myself. I figured, if you can be patient (like you had a choice…), I could be patient too.

Will have chapter 3 up soon, I half-heartedly promise with my fingers crossed behind my back!


	4. Seeing Things

_**Schizophreniac**_

**Chapter 3**

**Seeing Things**

Miles Prower sat on the gray sofa in the living room. Aunt Catherine was returning from the other side of the room with a dark green box of facial tissues. She sat down next to him, being careful to avoid sitting on his two tails resting mournfully beside him. Miles plucked a tissue from the box and dried his face. Catherine waited a moment, allowing Miles the time to compose himself. Soon, he had calmed down enough to talk.

"Last night, I remembered something," Miles began shakily. He hunched over and placed his left palm to his forehead, almost as if he was trying to hide his face. His other hand trembled in a clenched fist.

"What did you remember?" Catherine coaxed.

"I—I remembered a song. I think a man used to sing it to me—ugh, but I can't remember who!" Miles grunted in anger.

Miles wiped his eyes once more with the tissue before throwing it at the wicker stand to the right of the sofa. His face full of anger, he stared down into the floor with purpose, as if by merely concentrating at one spot on the carpet he could cause the floor to buckle and cave-in. Catherine had seen that look on his face only a few times, but it was nearly always followed by some kind of rash decision. She carefully took her young companion's hands in her own and tried to look him in the eye. This would required tact.

"Miles, that you remembered anything at all is a very good thing."

"No. No, it's not," he said, sulking.

"I can almost see his face. I—I can almost recognize his voice. It's right there, b-but—at the same time—it's not!" he stammered, pulling his hands from Catherine's grasp. "Aunt Catherine, what if—what if everyone forgot about me—like I forgot them?"

With gritting teeth and eyes shut tightly, the boy leaned face into his open hands in dejection, failing to keep the tears in abeyance. Catherine slid her arm around him, drawing him up until he rested his head on her shoulder.

"Do you remember that box of letters and birthday cards you found under your bed?" she asked, pushing him out from her side enough to see his face.

"Yes—"

"And the notebook full of the sketches and drawings you made of your friends?"

Miles nodded, his temper cooling a little as he tried to figure out where she was going with these questions.

"And what are those things that you keep in frames on your mantle, your tables, and your walls?" Catherine asked, bringing her left hand to her chin and looking up at the ceiling as if the answer were written above her head.

Miles closed his eyes and mussed the fur on the back of his head. Catherine had made her point, and now he felt a little foolish.

"The photos—yeah, I get it. If I've got all that stuff, then they probably have those things too."

The fox leaned back to rest against the sofa cushions, hands folding in his lap. Catherine sighed in relief. The boy seemed to be coming out of his strange mood.

"Your friends can't forget you. They were like family—especially Sonic, right? In those letters he said that you were like his little brother," she reminded him, patting the back of his hand.

Miles nodded again. He was feeling better. He still hurt, and still felt silly, but at least he was coming out of his depressed and angry funk.

"And it's impossible to forget Amy," Catherine added with a grin.

Miles could not help but smile. He playfully nudged Catherine's arm with his elbow. It really was funny how many letters, cards, and gifts he had received from the pink hedgehog. She seemed to really like to give things away; Miles had received a gift and an elaborately designed, homemade card from this Amy girl for every full and half birthday, as well as a letter dated just about every month. Judging from the picture of her in his living room, she was probably the only friend he had close to his age.

Miles sometimes wondered why he had so many older friends. Maybe the other children were afraid of him. Maybe he was just a popular guy, and only the cooler, older crowd could "hang" with him.

Secretly, Catherine believed that Amy may have had a crush on Miles since she paid him so much attention when he did not have any other friends his age. Catherine held back a chuckle. She would not dare to mention it. Poor Miles always became embarrassed when she talked about romance. An awkward expression would grow on his face, and he would pull his gloves on tighter and blink much more often.

Suddenly, Catherine was beckoned from her mental wanderings by the voice of her nephew.

"Still," Miles said with a bit of melancholy, "I wish that I had more of my parent's belongings. I wondered if they had died, and maybe that is why I never kept their stuff around, but--"

Miles breathed in deeply and let out a sigh as he gathered his thoughts.

"I guess—It's just…Something tells me they're still alive."

His voice trembled faintly as he continued.

"There's nothing to remind me of them—no photos, no keepsakes, not even a note. What could have been so bad that I would try _not_ to remember them?"

The young boy searched the older woman's eyes for an answer. To his disappointment, her reply did not suggest a reason.

"I don't know. The important thing is to remember how you feel right now, without any memory at all of your parents. When you do figure out why you removed all of their belongings, you won't allow yourself to do it again."

They both rested their heads back against the sofa. Catherine grasped Mile's left hand with her right, interlacing their fingers and giving a squeeze.

"You know," Catherine began, looking out the window across from her, "sometimes, I feel like this too. I've missed my home so much, and I wondered if people were still looking for me. But, when I thought about how much my family and friends loved me, I was absolutely certain that they would never forget me."

Catherine leaned into Miles and gently kissed his forehead. "They'll never give up looking for us," the older woman assured him. "Besides, when I disappeared, so did the house, and I really don't think my husband can go that long without his John Wayne movie collection," she quipped. Catherine giggled, causing Miles to smile too.

A curious expression began to grow upon the fox's face. Catherine was beginning to worry about the boy. Sometimes it seemed that his emotions changed too quickly. _Adolescence is different for everyone, I guess._

"Aunt Catherine?"

"Yes?"

"If we do get home, we won't be able to see each other anymore."

"That's right," Catherine responded with a hint of concern in her tone.

"Isn't there a way that we could both go back to the same place?" Miles hoped.

"I wish that were possible, but one of us would still be missed. Besides, I'm not sure people would like me where you live," Catherine said, looking away.

"Why wouldn't they?" Miles asked. He could not think of a single reason why anyone would _not_ like Aunt Catherine.

"I don't have a tail." Catherine sighed ashamedly, then looked at him sideways and gave him a wry wink.

"Maybe you could borrow one of mine," Miles replied with a chuckle, brushing one of his tails across her arm.

Though the comment took her by surprise, Catherine was glad that Miles was not sensitive about his additional tail. She had always been curious about the fox's extra appendage. Was he the only one of his kind with that sort of—condition?

Catherine's mind then recalled something that Miles had said. It got her thinking.

"Why can't we just go home?" she wondered aloud, her gaze wandering to the green floral wallpaper beneath the window across from her.

"How could we?" Miles asked skeptically.

Catherine looked back down to Miles. She looked as if she had made a decision.

"Miles, have you ever gone camping before?"

"I think so. Why do you ask?"

"I just think it's about time we explore a little. Maybe we can find more people, or a way out. Anyway, why should we stay here and wonder when we can try to answer some of these questions ourselves? At the very least it will be something new to do, right?"

Miles studied her face for a moment. Aunt Catherine seemed to be very eager. Miles saw a light in her eyes. _Well,_ he thought, _it __**will**__ be something new_. The boy hopped from the couch to his feet.

"When can we go?"

--

They had been in the middle of the story when the young human had joined them. The nurse had helped him to the small waiting room, but had kept him behind the main group of children. Fortunately, only a few children even noticed the visitor.

The children had been completely enthralled by the tale because the hero was a child too. As soon as the words "the end" were spoken, a dozen hands flew into the air, straining to reach higher than the others. The young lady at the head of the group set the book down on the empty chair beside her, and then pointed to a little white mouse in the center of the group.

"Julie, what's your question?"

"Why was the rich man so mean to everyone? He wouldn't like it if someone took his house and tore it down," the little girl whispered in a very raspy voice. It was so quiet that a boy next to her, a bear cub in a wheelchair, relayed her question to the storyteller.

"You're right. He wouldn't like it at all. But he wasn't thinking like that. He was being selfish. He didn't stop to think about how other people felt. Because of that, he ended up with no friends."

The young feline looked over the group again and chose a deer from the front row whose eyes and forehead were covered with bandages.

"Percy?"

"Percy R. or Percy H., ma'am?" he asked, tilting his head and grinning sheepishly.

The storyteller smiled and shook her head.

"Oh, I forgot there were two of you! Percy _Reynolds, _go ahead," she replied, her black tail fidgeting next to her.

"If the rich man was such a big jerk to everybody, then how come the little boy was so nice to him? I would have been angry at him, or scared, or something."

"A very good question—I probably would have felt the same. But we aren't supposed to do things based on how we feel. I know that if I only acted the way I felt all the time, I'd get myself in a lot of trouble, and nobody would want to be around me. If I get angry, and I take it out on everyone, then I just make more people angry. That will lead me to become angry again, and things become worse and worse.

"Of course, I couldn't act just on good feelings either. Something that makes me feel good but hurts someone else will still turn me into a very lonely person. Besides, selfishness never really makes you happy. Just look at the rich man in the story; he was miserable!

"The little boy was kind to the man because he knew that it was the right thing to do. He wanted the rich man to be kind to him, so he figured he should do the same to the rich man. If he hadn't, the rich man would have never changed and made things right--he never would have built new houses for the poor townspeople. You see, you can never know how much one small good thing that you do can shape someone else's life."

"You mean that I could do something really small, but it could help a lot more than I thought it would?" a tired-looking gray squirrel interjected from the back of the room.

"That boy in the story didn't expect to help the entire town, just the grumpy man. But it still happened, and that was just one time of being nice! If someone did it all the time, he could change a lot more."

"But that's just a story. How could any of us help that many people?" asked a bull-dog with a cast on his arm and a bandage on his head.

"The Freedom Fighters do it all the time. Many of them are just a few years older than you. Who knows, maybe you'll be the next hero of Knothole. Stranger things have happened."

All the children began whispering amongst themselves in excitement, wondering which among them would one day become one of the great heroes of Mobius. Quickly, the young woman stood up to regain the attention of her audience.

"Well, that's all for today. I know that it's naptime for many of you, so I'll have to come in later this week to check on you again, okay?"

"Okay," the children answered in unison.

An older nurse, perhaps a ferret, stepped forward, motioning to a group of about a half-dozen other nurses on the opposite side of the room.

"Alright, kids, let's all thank Ms. Hershey for coming to see us today," she crooned with a smile.

"Thank you, Ms. Hershey," rang out their sing-song response.

"Your welcome, everybody."

The nurses began to take the excited youngsters back to their rooms. Each child was promising to himself or one of the nurses that he would always be nice and that one day he would be a hero. Nevertheless, there were a handful of young ones who stayed behind. They were more interested in meeting the strange-looking, new person who was hobbling toward a chair nearer to the storyteller. She remained standing after he took his seat. The children immediately gathered around him, one taking a chair on either side of him and three others standing in front of him.

All were silent for several minutes. The storyteller waited for the human to say something, but he seemed content with simply looking at the children one by one. Eventually, the three standing children sat on the floor in front of the visitor. As the moments dragged on with no movement, the young cat fidgeted nervously. This was beginning to get really creepy.

Just as she was about to say something, the man rose to his feet, stretched out his arms in a dramatic gesture of welcome (at least, as dramatic as he could manage with his left arm in a sling) and then exclaimed, "Hello!" to which the children giggled various greetings in reply.

Bowing as low and formally as he could manage, the animated young man introduced himself. "I am Allan Perry of Lenexa, Kansas. Who have I the pleasure of addressing?" he inquired with enthusiasm, indicating with his open hand palm upwards a scruffy groundhog boy directly in front of him.

The boy was a little surprised to be thus singled out, but eventually found his voice.

"Uh, Nicolas, sir—uh—of Knothole Village," he sputtered nervously and a moment later, remembering Allan's earlier gesture, himself bowed, though somewhat clumsily.

Allan grabbed up Nicolas' trembling hand and shook it warmly. "I am most pleased to meet you Nicolas of Knothole Village. Would you do me the honor of introducing your friends here?"

"S-sure. I mean, the honor is mine, sir. Uh, this—" he began, indicating the stocky-looking badger child seated to Allan's left and continuing clockwise, "this is Mitch; he's from Knothole too, down by the creek."

Mitch raised closed a fist to his chest and nodded his head weakly, a kind of salute, before lowering his hand to his stomach again, a look of discomfort plaguing his face.

"Down here is Aubrey," Nicolas continued. "Her family's got a tree-house not far from here. And, um, this is Cali; she only came here last week, so I forget where she's from."

Cali, a small kitten possibly named for her calico coloration, quickly chimed in: "We lived near the river until a few weeks ago. We're staying in Knothole until I get better." She and Aubrey, a smoky gray colored rabbit of rather small size, rose and curtsied low with a seemingly practiced poise. A reciprocated nod from Allan sent the two back to their seats cupping their hands over their mouths to stifle excited giggles, apparently having delighted to find a proper use for their make-believe rituals usually reserved for playing princesses or tea-time.

"Oh, and he's Jad," Nicolas suddenly resumed, having recovered from his perplexity over the girls' odd enthusiasm.

Allan could not even begin to guess what Jad was. He appeared to be some sort of a cross between a weasel and a cat, having brown fur spotted with white on his back and lighter brown coloration on the front of his body. His appearance was strange, but not ugly. Though he was just now learning to think about things like beauty from a new perspective, Allan was confident in his opinion that Jad appeared to be one of the more interesting _what-do-you-call-its_ he had ever seen.

Nicolas sneezed, and then quickly continued his introduction.

"Jad's originally from Downunda. But he's lived here in the hospital for a long time."

"Then you may be just the person I need, Jad. If you have been here as long as Nicolas says, maybe you can help me find something better than soap operas to watch on TV," Allan said with a grin.

Until this point, Allan had been surprised at the familiarity of the names of people and places and even of the language shared with the Knothole villagers—even more shocked by the marked contrast between that familiarity and the totally foreign Mobians themselves. Finally, here was a name that sounded just as foreign as the person appeared. Allan prepared himself for the heavy, unintelligible accent he expected to hear from one of the alien race of Dow-Nunda.

"I can do ya' one better, Mr. Perry. I can tell you which nurse to talk to if you want ice cream for desert instead of a fruit cup."

–Perfectly understood English. Allan felt like an idiot. Downunda! It was obviously Australian. The accent was not even the over-the-top variety like the Crocodile Wrestler on TV. No one knew his embarrassment, though, because he was quite accustomed to thinking on his feet, or what his friends back home liked to call "B.S.ing it."

"Well, _Mr. Jad_," he began with genial emphasis, "I would be eternally grateful for any knowledge such an expert could offer."

Hershey smiled, crossing her arms and shaking her head. It seemed rather obvious that this Allan person was used to dealing with children. All of them were smiling and laughing. Aubrey had even gotten up on his lap. It was hard to tell who was enjoying it more, the kids or Allan himself.

"Ah, Nicolas, I think we may have left someone out of the introductions."

The feline storyteller suddenly realized that Allan was looking directly at her.

"Oh! Sorry," Nicolas exclaimed, standing up and running to the young woman's side. "This is, uh, Ms. Hershey. She reads stories to us twice a week in the afternoon. She's really good with the voices."

He glanced up to her with an appreciative, though slightly embarrassed, expression on his face, making it appear from above that the only visible features of his face were his two large yellow-brown eyes. Hershey always thought it was adorable and would give him a little hug from the side and muss his unkempt hair until it actually looked neater. Often Nicolas was able to innocently manipulate the affectionate gesture out of her, and today he succeeded again.

Allan smiled. "I thought so too. Can't find too many people who can do the voices right."

"Ms. Hershey's a Freedom Fighter too," added Mitch excitedly.

Hershey tensed a little. Her role as a Freedom Fighter was a touchy subject. She could not really blame the kid for being proud to know her, but she had not felt truly satisfied with anything she had done in more than a month—not since she had mistakenly nearly killed the princess.

Allan was still unfamiliar with what was going on in this world. Since freedom fighting sounded like it referred to war, he thought it might be better to avoid that subject until the children had left. So, he kept his greeting brief.

"It is very nice to meet you, Ms. Hershey. I would stand, but I think both Aubrey and I have become rather comfortable," he said with a chuckle, glancing down at the diminutive rabbit in his lap. Aubrey giggled before erupting into a brief coughing fit, Alan patting her back carefully until it passed.

"So," the young man began again, "what are you in for, Aubrey?"

Aubrey shifted in his lap before grabbing her throat and slowly shaking her head. She looked to Jad, and then to Hershey, motioning to both of them. Jad spoke first.

"Aubrey's got a queer bug in 'er throat. It makes her cough a lot, so her throat hurts. That's why she's leavin' the talkin' ta' those that know. I can't pronounce the name of it, though. What's it called again, Ms. Hershey?"

Hershey shifted her stance, then pulled a chair closer to the group and sat down.

"It's a form of pertussis. Really bad if you can't get the right medicine. Thankfully, Aubrey lives in Knothole, so her family brought her here very quickly."

_Pertussis—why does that sound familiar?_ Allan wondered inwardly. He thought he might have heard it on the news once, or seen something about it at the doctor's office. Suddenly, his memory recalled where he had heard that word.

It was his older cousin; he had just taken his first child in for vaccinations. He said there had been an outbreak in a local school in his home town. Officials sent everyone home for a few weeks and vaccinated all of the children for free to stop the contagious virus from spreading. They had called it whooping cough.

Allan hoped his abrupt revelation did not show in his expression, but he was shocked that any doctor would allow a child with an active case of whooping cough to be anywhere near other people, especially vulnerable children. Allan suddenly became aware of a pressure on his chest. Little Aubrey had inclined her head against his chest in complete relaxation, and it appeared that Allan, preoccupied with his previous thoughts, was the unwitting cause. Upon glancing down at Aubrey, whose eyes were closed though she visibly was still awake, the human's cheeks flushed with embarrassment; he had begun to stroke and scratch the back of the rabbit's head and neck in the same manner he would a domesticated pet.

_Aw, great-- they'll probably think I'm a pedophile or something!_

There was no hiding his thoughts now, but only Hershey seemed to notice his dismay. With a questioning look on her face, she moved her chair nearer so that she now joined the circle. Before Allan could ascertain whether she had seen what had happened, Mitch spoke up with a raspy, tired voice.

"The reason I'm here is because the crud in the creek near our house made me sick. My parents told me that the Swatbots dumped a bunch of stuff in the water when they took over the village. The doctor has me take medicine everyday until he's sure my body can fight off viruses again. He says my _emu_ system isn't strong enough yet."

Jad laughed heartily, holding the side of his head as if it had begun to ache. "Sorry, mate," Jad began, wiping his eyes, "I think you mean _immune_ system."

Mitch's eyes widened and his brow shot up in revelation. "Oh! Like the shots? That makes a lot more sense!"

He paused for a moment. Then, with a puzzled expression he asked, "Wait, so then what's an emu?"

Hershey could not help but giggle, though she covered her mouth in an attempt to contain it.

"It's a big bird that can't fly, like a small ostrich," Jad answered jovially.

"Oh." Then, after a moment, "Oh, _Emu_ system—ha!" Mitch, the good sport that he was, laughed at his own mistake. It soon escalated into hysteric laughter, one of such a strange but pure sound that it was more infectious than any illness in the whole of the hospital. The circle of children giggled riotously, and even Allan's guffaws could be heard down the hallways. (He had some regret later from the soreness this had worked up in his already injured body. One might say he had experienced true and literal "side-splitting laughter.") Down the hall, the nurses on call, shaking their heads, reminded each other to reduce the dosage of medicine distributed among the loopy bunch.

Everyone calmed down after a few minutes of chuckles and catching breath. Jad recounted his own hospital adventures to Allan and company. The other four children had heard his stories before, but they always enjoyed hearing them again. Jad was almost a veteran in hospital affairs, at least in his friends' eyes. He had been in the hospital for twelve weeks, the long stay a necessity for the delicate head surgery he had undergone. Jad had suffered from a tumor, and with medical resources being so low in Downunda and with Knothole being taken by force just after his family arrived, it did not look good for the boy. It was fortunate that Robotnik was overthrown before things had become worse. The way that the boy told the story, you would have thought Sonic the Hedgehog saved him personally.

Twelve weeks in the hospital had made him popular among the rest of the patients in the children's wing, as well as a number of the nurses. It helped that he was several years older than most of the other children—a whopping twelve years of age (his birthday had been two weeks ago) which practically guaranteed that the youngest would idolize him. The boy also seemed to have an uncanny amount of good luck. He had been temporarily roomed with the son of an influential leader in another Freedom Fighter group far to the south. In exchange for some tips in a sport entirely foreign to Allan, Jad was able to convince the other boy to ask his father for a few favors. That week, a large collection of children's books and movies were donated to the children's wing, freeing the children who could not enjoy the gardens from the mundane boredom of staying indoors all day and doing nothing. Timing like this seemed almost providential when considering that Robotnik had nearly completely eliminated such entertainments from the lands within his reach and that industries of that kind had been forgone long ago for more practical needs in wartime.

At the conclusion of his account, Jad stopped abruptly, and then he shivered, reaching his hand to his head. He quickly turned to look at Cali. Cali held her hands firmly over her ears, pressing them down against her head as if to shield herself from some overpowering noise. Her eyes were clamped shut and tears streamed from her eyes; pain and terror were evident in her expression. She suddenly found her voice, and gasped deeply before sobbing out, almost in a shout, "I can't hear! It's so loud, Ms. Hershey. Help me—it won't stop! It won't stop!"

Jad jumped forward and pulled Nicolas out of the way, shouting "Nurse Susan! Nurse Susan!" as Hershey rushed to embrace Cali. The girl clung to Hershey as if she thought something were trying to pull her away. The young woman dropped to her knees and held the girl tightly, stroking her head and rubbing her back.

"I've got you, Cali. You haven't gone anywhere. You're still with us," Hershey virtually shouted.

Allan was confused and terrified, wanting to help but unsure that he could. Perhaps they sensed his distress, but the children quickly piled into Allan's lap and the chairs on either side of him, keeping as close to him as possible. Nurse Susan, the older ferret lady he had seen earlier, darted from around the corner with a syringe in her hand. With one quick movement, she jabbed the needle into Cali's thigh, and almost instantly the child relaxed, her head dropping onto Hershey's shoulder.

Standing up, Hershey looked sidelong at Allan and the children. They seemed petrified with fear and shock, save Jad, who sat to Allan's left with a tearful, knowing expression and his hand stuck to the side of his head. Nurse Susan took the kitten from Hershey's arms and quietly shuffled from the room and around the corner. Hershey felt her eyes welling up as they left. Quickly, she rubbed the tears from her eyes, a vain attempt to put on a brave face for the children.

Unfortunately, that particular thought appeared to have never entered Allan's mind. Nearly all color had gone from his face, and he held Nicolas and Aubrey so tightly that they seemed uncomfortable. His mouth opened as if to say something, but no sound came. He continued only to stare with wide, unblinking eyes at the hallway, as if he saw something that was not there.

Finally, Nicolas wiggled in Allen's grasp.

"Mr. Allan, please let go. You're hurting my arm," he said carefully, perhaps trying to avoid embarrassing him.

Hershey was nearly at their side before Allan came out of his trance, apologizing to both the groundhog and rabbit. At Hershey's advice, the children went to their respective rooms to prepare for dinner. She herself remained behind. Judging from his stunned expression, the human might need some questions answered.

But just as she was about to ask if he was okay, he suddenly blurted out, "Dear God--you saw that, didn't you?" first looking toward the hallway, and then looking back to Hershey with that still, fearful expression.

"I was here when it happened to Cali last week, just after she came here. And it's happened to others before—"

"No," he interjected apprehensively, "Didn't you see the face?"

Hershey did not say anything but only stared at him for a few moments.

She could not help worrying for Allan's state of mind. Many of the Ultimate Annihilator's victims were suffering from mental stress. Some only endured mild anxiety and nervousness; others had begun having delusions, or thinking that they saw _through_ people and walls, or having "episodes" and headaches just as Cali was experiencing. Allan was probably just projecting his own trauma and confusion into this frightening experience, according to what the nurses had said before. Hershey searched his eyes, not knowing what to look for but hoping that she might see some sign that the friendly person Allan had seemed to be was not on the verge of suddenly disappearing.

Allan suddenly became rigid, and his face showed a confused mix of fear and anger, his eyes narrowing just slightly and his chin extending even less. Hershey took a step back. Her fears seemed to be confirmed. Then she realized that the human was not looking at her; he was looking at something behind her. She turned and saw nothing. Apparently, Allan noticed her confusion because he sharply asked "What the hell is going on?"

Quickly, Hershey sat next to the human. She was not sure what to do exactly, but she wanted to help, to calm him down before the nurses came to tranquilize him too. Carefully taking his good hand in hers, she looked into his eyes again. There was no doubt in her mind that the only thing that could pacify Allan was the truth.

"Allan, I will tell you what I know, but I want you to promise me that you'll listen no matter how strange it sounds. And I want you to promise me that you'll let me help you any way I can, okay?"

The human nodded, that look still set in his face, almost a kind of determination. Hershey looked into his eyes once more, trying to gather her thoughts, when something in them abruptly changed.

There, in the glossiness of the young man's eyes, Hershey saw reflected a wicked face with a twisted, fanged grin and yellow-green eyes with narrow pupils. Startled, she wheeled round, and suddenly, she both saw and heard the creature laughing. It was faint, but she knew that it was real and that it was approaching them. A maddening screeching noise filled the room and grew in volume, punctuated spontaneously by thunderous booming. In panic, Hershey backed up into the chair until she was standing, nearly toppling over the back of it as she held her ears in pain. Allan slumped forward, falling to the floor almost unconscious.

Then, for no apparent reason, it disappeared.

The quiet seemed almost as loud as the previous noise had been. Allan cried out for help at the top of his lungs, unable to hear anything with the ringing in his ears. A troop of nurses dashed into the waiting room to find Allan crumpled in the floor screaming and leaning on his broken arm and Hershey standing up on a chair so bristled with terror that she looked almost feral. The young cat leapt from the chair, landing between a nurse with a needle and Allan moaning on the floor.

"Do _not_ touch him!" she exclaimed loudly as much for emphasis as it was for her own inability to hear anything. "Bring the princess here immediately, and bring Dr. Quack too. I saw it. It's not a delusion."

Seeing as in a fog, Allan only made out Hershey's wild form standing over him and a shadowy mass lead by a spectacled creature, the light from the hallway glinting off an object in its hand. Hershey stood with wide stance and slightly crouched, her left hand balled into a fist at her torso and her right hand extended outward protectively, palm facing the injured human. Allan suddenly recalled a childhood memory of watching his favorite superhero cartoon. The hero had made the very same stance and gesture as the figure above him—even facing off against a gang of back-alley goons with knives! Bewildered and awestruck, all that Allan could manage to say before he slipped into unconsciousness was "wow."

"Wow," Sonic the Hedgehog whispered to himself as he quickly peeked around a corner, "major metal meltdown over here."

Sonic recoiled from the heat of the chemical fire burning several hundred yards from him. Even twelve stories up on one of the many catwalks among the buildings of Robotropolis the heat from the blaze at one of Robotnik's many factories was beginning to melt away access to their target. The narrow bridge that linked to the power plant across from him was already red hot, and even wearing the protective Hazard Suit, he knew that this route was much too dangerous.

Remnants of what used to be pavement dripped from the bridge supports to land sizzling and steaming on whatever obstructed gravity's pull. Sonic's face was similarly dripping, only with sweat which stung his eyes and sometimes left a salty taste in his mouth. He resisted the urge to remove his helmet to wipe his face as he scanned his surroundings looking for another way into the power plant.

At that moment, a timer in the hedgehog's Hazard Suit sounded pairs of low beeps in quick succession. It was time to check in with his Salvage Operation partner.

"SO-2 to SO-1. Mandatory check-in. Please respond to receive report. Over."

A moment later, Sonic's message was met with an exhausted British voice over the communicator.

"SO-1 to SO-2…I am ready to receive…your update. What is your status? Over."

Sonic relaxed a bit now that the formal prompts were out of the way. Protocol could be annoying sometimes, but it was also very necessary when operations were conducted in dangerous environments such as these.

"I'm good, at least for now. I don't think I'll be having barbeque anytime soon, though."

Sonic tried to sound like his usual jocular self, but it came out feeling forced. Events of late weighed heavily on the young speedster—so much so that he even began to volunteer for mundane and boring assignments just to get his mind off things. He knew that Rotor had noticed his funk and had sent him on this salvage mission in part to give him something more interesting to do.

He also realized that he would never have worked willingly with his current partner only a few months ago. However, a great deal of selfishness had been scrubbed out of the both of them, and now Sonic and Geoffrey St. John worked together without the bitterness that had formerly been between them. Still, their relationship remained professional and very little more. Their attempts at friendliness were uneasy and half-hearted, a side-effect of the number of betrayals both had experienced recently.

"Yeah, starting to feel…like a foil dinner myself," Geoffrey replied with his own awkward attempt at joviality. After a brief uncomfortable pause, Geoffrey returned to business.

"So, how goes it topside? Over."

Sonic walked back around the corner from which he had come and fell to a sitting position. Just putting another wall between him and that fire made such a difference.

"It's no good up here. The maintenance bridge is already superheated, and the smoke is getting thicker. Visibility is getting worse. Over."

"So either our suits burn…or…we take a bad step off the catwalk. Well, I'm having rotten luck—geh!—forcing open this grate too. We may not make it inside before…the fire catches us. Over."

"Okay, we'll give the vent one last shot before we move on. I'm coming down to help. Over."

Sonic could hear the breathlessness of his partner. That grate was the last option if the maintenance access did not pan out, and if Geoffrey's strained grunts were any indication, that too was a dead end.

Slowly and carefully, he began climbing back down the wall to the sixth story ventilation shaft. The fact that the maintenance bridge had heated so quickly had unnerved him. He was no metallurgist, but he did not think that it was natural for a fire so far away to have already affected the walkways. Usually he was not one to worry so much, but nothing had made sense since they had entered the city of machines. Everything was failing, falling, or flaming, and the heavy concentrations of temporal displacements caused by the Ultimate Annihilator made even walking through the streets a laborious process.

With a scuff, Sonic finally was back on the paved streets of Robotropolis. Geoffrey was knelt next to a drainage grating at the base of a wall about 20 feet away. Sonic could see that he had tried everything possible to force the grate short of blasting it. The contents of an open tool kit had its contents splayed on the ground around him, including a heavily scratched pry bar. The skunk himself leaned against the wall, using his right arm for support, trying to catch his breath.

Geoffrey heard Sonic's approach and flipped himself over so that he sat with his back against the wall. Sonic sat down next to him and waited. Both sat for a moment without looking toward each other. Finally, Sonic took a glance at the grate, a wrench still caught around a bolt that Geoffrey had been trying to loosen.

With an exhausted, nervous chuckle, Geoffrey indicated the drainage grating with a weak wave of his hand. "Think they'll miss that spanner? It's caught on that bolt tight as—I don't know. But it's bloody stuck for sure. Unless you can work it loose, mate, it's not going anywhere."

With raised eyebrows, Sonic crawled to the wrench and examined it closer. "How did it get stuck like this?" the hedgehog asked, heaving on the wrench to see for himself.

"Your guess is as good as mine. It fit perfectly when I started, then suddenly, it seemed to have shrunk and fused to the grating! I tell you, nothing makes sense in this place. It's like it's got a mind of its own, and it doesn't want anyone to find something. I say we give that shaft a try, and if that doesn't work, then we come back later when we can hazard a torch or a couple of charges. I would have brought some with us if I didn't think the gas leaks would blow us faster than you could outrun."

"I'm sure I could challenge that statement if I didn't have to wear this thing," sighed the hedgehog, tugging at the sleeve of his Hazard Suit, "but I like breathing too much to take it off. You know, part of me wishes we could just blow it all sky-high and all the bad memories with it. But we could sure use a lot of these parts for our generators."

Sonic pushed with his full weight once more on the wrench to no effect. Exasperated, he lay down to examine the bolt more closely. They could not afford to leave behind a tool that might be needed later.

"Whoa."

Geoffrey crawled over to see what the matter was.

"What is it? What did you find?"

Sonic pulled a flashlight off the utility belt on his Hazard Suit and pointed it at the bolt. The wrench had not shrunk, but rather the bolt was expanding into the wrench by taking pieces from it.

"Whoa," Geoffrey echoed.

"That is way past uncool. It looks like it's using the wrench for spare parts, just absorbing it. What could do that?"

Geoffrey read worry in his partner's face and guessed that he carried the same expression too. The skunk leaned across the back of his prone companion and grabbed the pry bar. Geoffrey quickly scraped the flat end against the head of the bolt-wrench object. Reaching to the tool kit, he removed a specimen container.

"I don't know, Sonic, but we'll let the brainy types find out for us."

Just as the scrapings were sealed in the small box, they both heard a humming sound. The two looked up in alarm. It sounded like a hovercraft engine!

Sonic immediately began packing the toolkit, placing Geoffrey's specimen in the bottom of the box for safe keeping. In the meantime, Geoffrey had loaded his arm-mounted crossbow and jogged in the direction of the noise, ducking behind the remnants of a crashed flatbed maintenance transport. He peered over the top of the broken vehicle's treads just in time to see a searchlight shine out from a side alley approximately twenty yards ahead. Cursing under his breath, the skunk dropped down and motioned for Sonic to join him quickly. In a moment, Sonic was at his side and affixing a crossbow to his own arm.

"Let's hope I don't have to use this thing! I'm a decent shot with it, but it still takes too long for me to load it," Sonic whispered sharply.

"Fat lot of good it'll do either of us. Arrows and darts may hurt you and me, but these rigs aren't meant to propel these through metal. Under better circumstances, I'd have brought grenade rounds, but with all this gas in the air and fuel lying about, we'd be just as dead as our enemies."

Geoffrey clenched his teeth and searched the surrounding area, praying for a moment of inspiration. Meanwhile, the hovercraft turned in their direction, scanning the road and its intersecting alleys with its spotlight. Sonic looked around the side of the overturned vehicle only to quickly jerk back a second later.

"Geoff, it's a fully equipped Patrol-Scout. It might be the lead for Swatbot Transport or a patrol formation."

"It's unlikely to be leading a Transport, but it might be a full patrol running on its last transmission of orders. Let's hope this bugger came alone; we might be able to avoid him."

"No, he'll be on our tails in two seconds flat if he comes this way. Our wrench is sticking out of that grating just waiting to be seen. And if that doesn't give us away, the tool marks made around the grating will. They'll start looking for whoever tried to break into the power plant and bring backup with them."

Geoffrey scowled. He was glad Sonic had the presence of mind to think ahead a little, but he knew that he should have remembered it himself. Sweat dripped from his nose into his mouth as he looked up in frustration, racking his brain for a way of escape.

Suddenly, Geoffrey got his inspiration. One of the main power lines from the plant traversed the gap directly above them. A risky idea occurred to him, one that might get him and Sonic killed, but with the Scout creeping closer every second, they would be dead for certain if they did nothing.

With his bow-mounted hand, the Freedom Fighter pointed out to his blue comrade the large tube which housed the power line. "Sonic, that may be our only chance out of here. That tubing appears to be undamaged, so there still might be live current. If I give a good distraction, think you can drop a line to short out the Rust-bucket Brigade?"

Sonic grinned, and with a wink and a thumbs-up, he was on his feet taking off the crossbow. "Just call me Sparky. Give me a signal when you're ready to boogie."

"Hopefully, my dancing partner will let me lead."

The hedgehog handed the weapon to his compatriot before placing a few tools from the kit in his belt. Sonic stood crouched on the opposite end of their cover as Geoffrey loaded a bolt into the crossbow now adorning his other arm. Each gave a nod to the other, and Geoffrey dashed into the open firing his first crossbow directly at the searchlight. The dart hit its mark, shattering the plastic covering of the beacon.

Immediately, the spotlight darted towards the fleeing skunk, laser fire blasting into the pavement just as the beam passed over. Seeing that the hovercraft was sufficiently distracted, Sonic took a running start from behind the destroyed transport and leapt into the air, arms extended, to catch an overhanging pipe. With gymnast agility he swung himself twice over the pipe to build momentum and then released, leaping to another bar some ten feet away. From this he flew towards the outer wall of the power facility and, planting his feet squarely for an instant, bounded off the horizontal surface up and out to the power line tube, landing with a slide in a backwards seated position straddling the tube.

He hugged the tube with his legs, throwing his hands against the tube to steady himself. Normally such a feat would be relatively easy for the blue blur, but the Hazard Suit significantly reduced his range of motion and speed. He had meant to land on his feet. Sonic sighed in relief as he pulled out his tools, thanking his lucky stars that the seat of his Suit had stopped the momentum of his slide.

Below, Geoffrey was reloading a fifth bolt into a crossbow as he dashed behind a pile of rubble. So far, only his first and fourth shots had made any noticeable damage in the Swatbot Patrol-Scout hovercraft. Regrettably, they had only broken the protective casing of the searchlight. Laser-fire blasted through the metal and brick the Freedom Fighter had ducked behind a moment before. Geoffrey St. John dove into the open street, loosing another arrow toward the searching eye of the hovercraft.

Rolling behind a storage bin, Geoffrey chanced a glance toward the power line to see Sonic's progress. He was pleased to see that Sonic was already working on it. The skunk leapt from his cover just as it was obliterated, a chuck of metal just missing his ducking head. The next shot, however, was nearly six feet further away then the last, and the next even further. With a grin of satisfaction, Geoffrey realized that his last arrow had stuck in the spotlight's vitals, causing the cursed beam to fade out as the circuitry fizzed and sparked.

He was about to hazard a rest behind a fallen satellite dish when he froze in place. There before him was another patrol ship, one of the full-sized varieties sure to be equipped with heat sensors and maybe even a missile or two. Knowing that running back toward the blind fire of the other ship would be suicide, he dove beneath this new craft, fully expecting to be shot through the heart as he landed. Strangely, nothing happened.

Geoffrey remained absolutely motionless, wondering if by some monumental stroke of luck he had evaded notice or if he had already died. When his ears stopped ringing and he noticed that there was no sound or movement (excepting his own, of course), he rose to his feet. He had never experienced such a level of perplexity and puzzlement. The patrol craft was suspended in mid air staring at its smaller counterpart, also frozen. Geoffrey could even see that the ship's exhaust had ceased to make its way skyward to meet with the rest of the poisonous smog. Swiftly, he wheeled around to see the smaller craft.

"What the devil is this?"

It should have been impossible, but his eyes did not deceive him. The Swatbot laser cannon had been discharged, but the laser fire seemed to be motionless as well. Somehow, Geoffrey was now moving faster than should be comprehensible. The thought overwhelmed him.

Then, it occurred to him that moving that quickly should have severely negative side-effects, and yet, he felt none. This had to be one of the temporal distortions about which Rotor had warned them. Now the skunk had two escapes to make. Escaping from beyond light speed would bring him into the midst of the previous battle, and he still was not certain that he and Sonic would survive that.

"Out of the frying pan—"


End file.
